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Words

I write there, and then you write they’re
I write who, and then you write whom
I misspell my words, too me you then curse
Then you call me a stupid loon.
You call me names, from which I refrain
Then I am off to a different room.

I forget punctuation's, It gives you frustrations
I don't use a contraction, you give me verbal action
Then I misspell a word, you call me absurd
I give you my silence it’s my only reaction.
You call me a name, my innocence I proclaim
My humility is seems, is your only satisfaction.

I sit at my typewriter, I still am a fighter
As I close my eyes, words still materialize
Words are my friends, rhyming is my sin
Maybe someday that, you will realize.
I finish another poem, to the world I show them
I write another verse, it becomes my universe.

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poem by Randy McClave
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So What Improvisation 07 28 09

So what? Trust the err to worldly deception
Rainbow colors bent true to light in the day
Mirror fire-fly bright the face of night
Lyrical disguise beguilingly wise -thoughts’
Feast on Pleroma song -more word set to
Sever sound jazz rarely come with elegant
Punctuation moment happens surprised chord
For chord to think of it -anyway read -word
Bumps phrased as merry-go-round bumper cars
Horse the axel power death and hope and life
Meet in an instant
Competitive plasticities reach beyond
Every horizon ping through seasonal fields
Garden pleromas sated with stones once
Sandy shore kisses on nonchalant lips
Meeting surprise with teeth and baptism
Sectional pleasures ripple through rhythms
Solo chants and counterpoint syncopation
Through echo chamber colliders stream
Toward deflation boundaries

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poem by Lee B. Mack
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Chance Interruption Chants Current Version

Think how initial trains of thought
may be derailed from one-track aim
by some coincidence and brought
to change conclusions. Thus the same
words won't be written, inklings caught,
cards drawn, refused, and thus life's game
crests forward causal waves that court
adjusted emphasis, acclaim.
Missed punctuation may abort
sense, pride sap, map ride, conquer shame.
Experiments dismissed, rewrought,
gave penicillin claim to fame.
Confronted with life's puzzle we
prepare discontinuity.

Think how initial chains of thought
may be diverted from first frame,
cue to new wavelengths taut,
intense sensations to proclaim
as apt path once thought peril fraught,

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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A Valley Of No Flowers

Pranab k c
08/2011

The valley never gets free from its glory
grey its wide openness never hides death
from its extreme interior of visibility
and metaphorical existence

My ancestors once played their flute to salute the peak
high so high the stiff never kept their feet anymore
only light they seen as we the worthless parasites
yet find flickering truth to burst ourselves with pride

The valley never ends its utterly paradox to greet again
when mermaids hallucinating watery surface to swim
a light of deeming dusk playing a gallop to hold our reign
mighty strength the dancing horses no more on the ground

a beautiful paranoia with its suddenness
calls the trip to hooting

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poem by Pranab K. Chakraborty
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A Kind Of Sorrow, A Secret Suffering

to lose you i know is one kind sorrow
for i claim a loss that i never had even once owned.

a play of words, and i know you do not understand
what each word means, what a punctuation is.

this heart that grieves for what it cannot even touch
with its fragile hands, its trembling fingers
for what i see is but a glimmer
a faint light, a shadow, a hush, a slight glimpse

no one knows what secret suffering is all about
(secret so to say, i give it a language of its own)
a heart that bleeds without drops of blood
a heart injured yet without the bruises and wound

i mix with the crowd just like what we do when we go malling.
i smile like the way all people smile. i always have a glimpse of you.
yet i know, i do not wait for anybody, or anything, this is simply
an impossible endeavor. Clouds that dissipate. Air that vanish.

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Angel Of Miracles

She couldn’t teach through lecture
As the student was unable to hear.
Nor could she teach by exhibit.
The blind student could not see it.

The student was able to respond to touch.
It would be necessary to learn how much.
In other instances one could use taste.
Such learning could not be done in haste.

Other times she could teach using smell.
Done kindly to bring him out of his shell.
These are the only ways to communicate,
Establish an interactive state.

The scholar must expand his repertoire
In order to communicate with the mentor.
Communication involves at least two people.
For this the mentor must be responsible.

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poem by James L. A. Huetson
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Her and Him

She fell in love at the first sight
of his prismic points and insights
depicting a plethora of fireworks
consecutively sparkling in the sky.

Whilst he trampled in a delicate stupor
to muse upon her eloquent words
woven like a tapestry to mantle
the unfathomable slumbering firmament

Stocks of unedited ends and tales
smokes out of his hidden system.
Soft punctuation in creative rhymes,
fills me with bliss in every line.

Her unabashed tongue gyrated
to recount the tragedy of felled stars
And the rapier of her caustic words
slurred with a vicarious quiescence on mine

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poem by Norman Santos
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Behold! I am not one that goes to Lectures…

Behold! I am not one that goes to Lectures or the pow-wow of
Professors.
The elementary laws never apologise: neither do I apologise.
I find letters from the Dean dropt on my table—and every one is
signed by the Dean's name—
And I leave them where they are; for I know that as long as I
stay up
Others will punctually come for ever and ever.
I am one who goes to the river,
I sit in the boat and think of 'life' and of 'time.'
How life is much, but time is more; and the beginning is
everything,
But the end is something.
I loll in the Parks, I go to the wicket, I swipe.
I see twenty-two young men from Foster's watching me, and the
trousers of the twenty-two young men,
I see the Balliol men en masse watching me.—The Hottentot
that loves his mother, the untutored Bedowee, the Cave-man
that wears only his certificate of baptism, and the shaggy
Sioux that hangs his testamur with his scalps.

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poem by Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch
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0006 Weasel Words

It’s such fun spotting them –
this should be built into the syllabus
of every English class: to con the cons;
sharpens the mind, too –

those words that cloak deceit,
prevarication, ignorance,
evade the point of a discussion,
evade answering the vital question and questioner,
simplify the complex,
complicate the simple…

‘the real point is..’
say they, switching the agenda
to the home ground of their local thought,
‘more to the point is…’
‘more importantly…’ (that’s smart..)

said quickly (that's the trick
of weasel words - make them seem

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Love Love Love

Love is bonding between sisters and brothers
Love is sharing by husbands and wives
Love is caring of parents & children
Love is emotional with everyone else.

Love is potion on the bed
Love is ocean and never dead
Love is in our hearts and in brain
Love is in blood and in our veins.

Love happens, can't be created
Love is compassion, can't be rated
Love is smile, makes us laugh
Love is deluge, can't be hated.

Love is not showing your assets
Love is different from bloody lust
Love is not possessiveness shown
Love is what you give the best.

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poem by Tribhawan Kaul
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