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Breaking The Poets Code

To write of each emotion
And so vividly express
Into the mind and heart of others
That all which is written is felt
To tell a simple tale
With such rhythm and colour
That all who come to read it
Swear they to were on the journey
What is this craft called poetry
To which so many aspire
Quietly sitting penning worlds
Flowing each stanza with ease
Like a river across the page
The gentle metaphor graces
Each carefully chosen word
To depict a thought or memory
And express in its verse
That all may feel perhaps see
The word world of a poet
The code of what is writ

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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Sonnet- God's Creation Is Good

Each flower has some nectar for each Bee;
Each flower has some beauty rather deep;
Each flower has some perfume that is free;
Each flower makes the observer's heart leap.

All religions have good precepts to give;
All religions depict God's love for men;
All religions help mankind better live;
All religions show men way to Heaven.

We ought to take the good things in our life;
We ought to shun all evil thoughts and deeds;
We ought to face in life all kinds of strife;
We ought to plant, to reap better, good seeds.

God made all things with definite purpose,
Expecting man's soul come back in pure dress.

poem by John Celes
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Deity Of Deities

DEITY OF DEITIES
VAVROO VAHANA PATRA
Mother Mahamaya Devee Durga
Appears on Earth on Saptamee day Of Autumn
Beauteous is that dawn.
Devotees chant the Mother’s name
delightfully and prostrate at Her feet.
Children play with delight;
Devotees assemble before the altar,
under the Sun God’s cosy light.
The Mother listens to the pleas
of all, and satisfies their desires.
Poets too chant Mother’s name
with devotion and depict her great beauty.
The mother is the Deity of Deities, Supreme.
The Mother’s heart is soft and cosy,
She comes to shower love and affection
on all Devotees seeking her protection.

poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Sonnet: Poetic Limits

Can words depict the true beauty of things?
Can words describe the truth of every scene?
Can words expound the hearts of all earthlings?
Can words decode the joy of things unseen?

Can words bring out the beauty of music?
Can words suffice to explain mysteries?
Can words repaint the beauty of a ‘pic’?
Can words spell out the taste of foods/berries?

And yet, the poet slogs with words and sounds;
With mastery and skills, unique, unknown;
And takes the reader’s hearts to divine grounds,
Or earthly terrains akin to their own.

Kudos to Bards! Who pen and sing supreme,
To create things felt/seen or in a dream.

9-21-2002

poem by John Celes
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Mean Spirited

What is more tragic than a nonacceptance of truth?
People allowing themselves and others too...
To pretend it does not exist.
With a defending against it.
No matter how weak their defense against it is.

As others are solicited...
To declare those of truth they find offensive.
With a convincing of the ones also in denial,
That someone has treated them viciously...
With an attitude they depict to be mean spirited.

And those who have decided with determination,
To walk on paths with truth held onto...
Firmly in their grasp as a confirmation,
Is to leave those behind avoiding it...
Shallow in their darkening shadows alone.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Socialistic Certainty

A socialistic certainty is in process!
Similar to a republic...
Few understood.
Although pledging an allegiance to it.

And democracy as it has been defended,
Only protected those,
In exclusive capitalistic greed.
Devastating a global economy.
That has leeched too long on foreign lands...
To depict those living on them,
As feared enemies.

As crooks of all kinds,
Lay their gluttonous behinds...
Wining and dining on fancy yachts,
Feasting and doing...
What they damn well please.
While those who are left...
In hunger and pitifulness,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Burden. The Weight

To insinuate to others,
A participation one claims...
That does not take place,
Is an intended deception.

And those lead to believe,
One has received benefits...
From one who lies of it.
Has accepted to depict,
With judgements passed...
An ungrateful, self-centered,
Ego-centric...
Has done this awful task.

And they play into the hands,
Of one familiar with charades.

And,
Of course...
Those with perceptions fixed,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Portrait

PORTRAIT
A lurid looking impasto indeed
With grisly colors dappled all over
Like puddles of cuddled blood
Daubs of violent reds! Gloomy black patches!
Erotic blues and skinflint browns!
Resigned auspicious yellows,
Ashen virtuous whites and
Paled prosperous greens

He is often slipping his palette
Dripping the hues and tripping the easel
His lines running in zigzag jumble
Drawing He, with his quivering quill
The frazzled veteran Artist of unknown origin
“Your mighty hand must be aging! Oh my Master!
Muster your energies to depict on Earth
Your best ever portrait to reinvigorate
Your original beautiful oeuvre in whole for ever”

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Granite Date

(Granite date)

Up in mid air my glare hangs,
in my pulsation and time thumb,
gravel of this end that drums,
amidst ticks, foolish and dumb.

Seconds surround my solitude,
they tick and dance, fastened;
in half lit space, as to delude,
my expectancy 'n' stay absent.

I wait; in a mystified rhythm,
knowing that it may be an end,
solving my rejoiced algorithm,
and solitude's relentless bend.

On slopes bellowing, outwitted,
time is virtue, waiting is merit;
my expectancies only omitted,

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poem by Giorgio Veneto
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This Living Earth Is Sick of Conflicts

There is going to be an end of violence.
With a silencing of disturbed minds burned.
Increased mental illnesses will afflict.
Evidence of that,
Now exists.

This living Earth is sick of conflicts.
And those 'experiments' that leech upon it!
Many are trying to find signs to depict the end.
And the ones in worship of the falsities of deities...
Have symbolized them in flesh,
And not in 'spirits' that oversees all of their misdeeds!

There is going to be an end of violence.
With a silencing of disturbed minds burned.
Increased mental illnesses will afflict.
Evidence of that,
Now exists.
And yet there are those...
Believing they command and control,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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