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Do You See My Truths? .....

naked shall you see me
dressed in twilight

do you see the truth in me now?
you are wrong
for my thoughts are still covered thickly
and each letter
still tries to conceal what my words
shall try to speak

everyday i write the words
the poems that you read
do you claim to see the truths in me now?
you are wrong again
for what i am still belongs to those
unspoken

and in my silence i shower you
with its emptiness
do you see my truths now?

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Poncé De Léon

By a black wharf I stood lately,
When the night was at its noon;
Keen, malicious stars were shining,
And a wicked, white-faced moon.

And I saw a stately vessel,
Built in fashion quaint and old;
From her masthead, in the moonlight,
Hung a flag of faded gold.

Black with age her masts and spars were,
Black with age her ropes and rails;
Like a ghost through cere-cloths gazing
Shone the white moon through her sails.

Not a movement stirred the stillness,
Not a sound the silence broke,
Save alone the livid water
Lapping round her sides of oak.

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poem by Victor James Daley
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The Fable About a Nail

For lack of a nail the kingdom has fallen
—according to the wisdom of nursery schools—but in our kingdom
there have been no nails for a long time there aren’t and won’t be
either the small ones for hanging a picture
on a wall or large ones for closing a coffin

but despite this or maybe because of it
the kingdom persists and is even admired by others
how can one live without a nail paper or string
bricks oxygen freedom and whatever else
obviously one can since the kingdom lasts and lasts

people live in homes in our country not in caves
factories smoke on the steppe a train runs through the tundra
and a ship bleats on the cold ocean
there is an army and police an official seal hymn and flag
in appearance everything like anywhere in the world

but only in appearance for our kingdom
is not a creation of nature or a human creation

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poem by Zbigniew Herbert
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Africa Hosts to Win

Good luck to all the African teams
I can already feel as Africa beams
my wish that an African team wins
Is not like searching in a bag of pins
but as a just reward for Africa’s toil
First ever world cup on African soil

Yes, the trophy goes to the very best
yet the race not to be for the swiftest
who may scorn to underrate the rest
but defeat with gusts is the sweetest

Lift high the flag of Africa’s new hope
with resolve to win enter the contest
calm waters make no sailors to cope
but dexterity comes from its conquest

Juggle balls with selfless team spirit
Have no fear! Within you lie so deep
a fountain of inbuilt courage, inspirit

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poem by Dela Bobobee
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War Never Solves Anything

Of battles won and noble soldiers you hear the old balladeer sing
But war only brings death and suffering and war never solves anything
And the mental scars of war keep festering long after the battle does end
You badly injure or kill someone's loved one that person will not be your friend.

For God and the flag of their Nation too many in battle have died
And the Government honour war heroes in their false show of patriotic pride
But the fact is their young lives were wasted and the fact with us sadly remain
That old battles are never over and for old grieviances human blood spilt again.

War weaponry and explosives big business in a World where human life is taken cheap
By some a human life seen as of no more value than that of a cow's or a sheep
From history we have not learned the war supposed to end all wars long gone
Yet every day more violence and terror and war and war mongering lives on.

Of battles won and acts of war bravery so many songs written and sung
And war instigated by old men must always be fought by the young
But the song for the young dead war hero to the hero's mum to it has a bitter ring
And war is a waste of human life for war never solves anything.

poem by Francis Duggan
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What Mission Now?

What mission may the poet still retain
Here in this day and age, which sees the world
As lost as ever, while mankind is whirled
Too fast, and at a pace few can sustain.
Most mask their feelings, shield themselves from pain,
In hope that though no psalms are skywards skirled
Some light can filter through cocoons which, curled,
Shut out most aspirations, which remain
Ideals Man thinks he ought to seek. In vain
Or so it seems, the flag of hope unfurled
Now braves the insults philistine which, hurled,
Nor spare nor temper the poetic vein.
One voice, when clear, will break the glass of Time,
What matter if in free-verse or in rhyme?

Whenever rhyme is crafted on ideas
Heart tunes to rhythm, can effect enhance
Allowing invitation to a dance
That adds dimensions in way that clears
Muddy waters - often verse appears

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poem by Jonathan Robin
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Breathtaking

Why do I applaud them,
With enthusiasm in my standing ovation?
Did you just see that?
Their performance given...
Was absolutely brilliant.
The execution of presentation...
Superb.
Close to flawless.

The diction?
Eye contact?
And conviction with elecution?
Lifted me right out of my seat!

I have not witnessed such commitment,
To a staged production like this...
Since my parents tried to convince me,
Santa Claus was alive and well!
And that was after I saw them...
Wrapping up our Christmas gifts,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Drake's Drum

Drake he's in his hammock an' a thousand miles away,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)
Slung atween the round shot in Nombre Dios Bay,
An' dreamin' arl the time O' Plymouth Hoe.
Yarnder lumes the Island, yarnder lie the ships,
Wi' sailor lads a-dancing' heel-an'-toe,
An' the shore-lights flashin', an' the night-tide dashin',
He sees et arl so plainly as he saw et long ago.

Drake he was a Devon man, an' ruled the Devon seas,
(Capten, art tha' sleepin' there below?)
Roving' tho' his death fell, he went wi' heart at ease,
A' dreamin' arl the time o' Plymouth Hoe.
"Take my drum to England, hang et by the shore,
Strike et when your powder's runnin' low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I'll quit the port o' Heaven,
An' drum them up the Channel as we drumm'd them long ago."

Drake he's in his hammock till the great Armadas come,
(Capten, art tha sleepin' there below?)

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poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
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A warrior’s poem

A warrior’s poem

My anger bleeds my innocence away
Until all I am left with is the silence like after a question
In my mind I carry the suggestion
That I might be better off laughing my anger away
But I feel better being angry and seeing
My anger like the blood red flag it seems to be
Seemingly I wave it around trying to attract the bull and take it by the horns
Like my life since I was born!
Anger is a symptom of my frustration and sadness
A symptom of my friendless madness
A cross I bear
A sword I use to strike and to parry
Those who would leave me at deaths door
Yes and that goes for friends and loved ones
Who know how to hurt me the most
And raise a toast to my despair
Push my buttons and then stare back at me

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poem by Daniel Hooks
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In Defiance of a Female Warrior

When she stepped out of the shower
In pale wet skin
And splendor

She wore water like a queenly robe
Dripping breasts
Made of gold and treasure

Such beauty deserved
To be inscribed
Something no man should forget

In case I couldn’t memorize the bite of her
Kiss
The trembling release of her depth

In case I might forget the flavor of her
Cries
The excited rasp of her breath

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poem by Catman Cohen
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