The Gold of Morning |
Colin Ian Jeffery is an established English poet and novelist with a world-wide reputation. His books can be purchased from all good bookshops and Amazon. He is the younger of two sons, Anton his brother, two years older, father and mother, Frank and Betty Jeffery. When Colin was seven, a choirboy, he became entranced by poetry after hearing the twenty-third psalm read in church. The beauty of the words struck his soul like lightning and his Muse began to sing. He found poetry read on the BBC radio Home Service and listened in awe and delight to such poets as Dylan Thomas, John Betjeman, and Ted Hughes. |
Song my mother sang
When babe in arms
My mother sang to me
Soft and lilting
Voice precious to my heart.
Long since gone
Beyond sight and touch
Grave deep, never woken by tears.
With wind’s whispering tones
Again I hear her song
Touching my soul with a mother’s love.
When babe in arms
My mother sang to me
Soft and lilting
Voice precious to my heart.
Long since gone
Beyond sight and touch
Grave deep, never woken by tears.
With wind’s whispering tones
Again I hear her song
Touching my soul with a mother’s love.
Billy
Never speaks
Trapped within damaged brain
Body twisted, limbs trembling
Sitting in hospital yard
Humming tunes without melody.
Bright soul standing tall
Articulate mind intact
Singing melodious songs of love
Only God and he can hear.
Trapped within damaged brain
Body twisted, limbs trembling
Sitting in hospital yard
Humming tunes without melody.
Bright soul standing tall
Articulate mind intact
Singing melodious songs of love
Only God and he can hear.
Young boy at prayer
He kneels weeping beside his bed, grieving
Whispering prayers to God, seeking peace of mind
Healing for the sadness overwhelming
Loss that seems too much for the heart to bear.
Tells of his grandmother, darling Nana
Dying in a hospice, body ravaged by cancer
Asks for Divine intervention for her to be received
Into Heaven, greeted by angels, no longer in pain.
Knows he will never forget Nana and her boundless love
How happy she made him with treats, cuddles and kisses.
Ends the prayer thanking God for hearing him
And for him having such loving parents
Teachers and classmates, and his best friend
Henry the pug dog, with delightful wagging tail.
Whispering prayers to God, seeking peace of mind
Healing for the sadness overwhelming
Loss that seems too much for the heart to bear.
Tells of his grandmother, darling Nana
Dying in a hospice, body ravaged by cancer
Asks for Divine intervention for her to be received
Into Heaven, greeted by angels, no longer in pain.
Knows he will never forget Nana and her boundless love
How happy she made him with treats, cuddles and kisses.
Ends the prayer thanking God for hearing him
And for him having such loving parents
Teachers and classmates, and his best friend
Henry the pug dog, with delightful wagging tail.
Homeless
Sheltering against freezing cold
Huddled under cardboard in shop doorway
Teeth chattering, praying for coming dawn.
Penniless and homeless, hungry and thirsty
Wondering when he will eat again
Hear kind words, given money for food.
Left home when life became too much
With pressures he could not overcome
Now pride prevents returning home.
Rain falls and midnight hour chimes
And thinking of friends and family
He weeps for those he left behind.
Huddled under cardboard in shop doorway
Teeth chattering, praying for coming dawn.
Penniless and homeless, hungry and thirsty
Wondering when he will eat again
Hear kind words, given money for food.
Left home when life became too much
With pressures he could not overcome
Now pride prevents returning home.
Rain falls and midnight hour chimes
And thinking of friends and family
He weeps for those he left behind.
Lois Greene Stone, writer and poet, has been syndicated worldwide. Poetry and personal essays have been included in hard & softcover book anthologies. Collections of her personal items/ photos/ memorabilia are in major museums including twelve different divisions of The Smithsonian. The Smithsonian selected her photo to represent all teens from a specific decade.
Vacant
Two who had grown up
in tenements, minus
privacy, owned a house
eleven years after wedding.
Offspring knew each
could close out siblings
so daydreams
and diaries might be done.
Piano playing, dancing,
were nightly activities
prior to television.
Constant company
and activity. Life
left my father at
age forty-five;
rooms were ‘rooms’
minus ....
Memories moved
through my mother’s
head as, alone, she
whispered goodbye
to the tangible.
For Sale sign
symbolized her
agony and her
strength.
in tenements, minus
privacy, owned a house
eleven years after wedding.
Offspring knew each
could close out siblings
so daydreams
and diaries might be done.
Piano playing, dancing,
were nightly activities
prior to television.
Constant company
and activity. Life
left my father at
age forty-five;
rooms were ‘rooms’
minus ....
Memories moved
through my mother’s
head as, alone, she
whispered goodbye
to the tangible.
For Sale sign
symbolized her
agony and her
strength.
Aloud, Alone
At times when all alone am I
Pretending play or dreaming dreams,
I feel so calm yet joyous too,
So glad to be alive, it seems.
Before a mirror I will stare
And make a smile that pleases me,
I practice with this face of mine
'Till I find one for friends to see.
Aloud I speak for walls to hear
The secret thoughts my mind knows well
Yet cannot share with anyone
For fear of laughter if I tell.
It's good to have a private place
That's yours for keeps or just for loan
Where play is real and dreams seem true,
A spot to talk aloud, alone.
©1976 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
Pretending play or dreaming dreams,
I feel so calm yet joyous too,
So glad to be alive, it seems.
Before a mirror I will stare
And make a smile that pleases me,
I practice with this face of mine
'Till I find one for friends to see.
Aloud I speak for walls to hear
The secret thoughts my mind knows well
Yet cannot share with anyone
For fear of laughter if I tell.
It's good to have a private place
That's yours for keeps or just for loan
Where play is real and dreams seem true,
A spot to talk aloud, alone.
©1976 Harlequin Enterprises, Ltd.
Alone, Aloud
At times when all alone am I,
Remembering youth and unfilled dreams,
I feel so sad, yet peaceful too,
Still glad to be alive, it seems.
Before a mirror I might stare
Or touch my face, though wrinkled be,
And wonder how my outside aged
When old I don't feel inwardly.
Aloud I speak for walls to hear
The inner thoughts, my mind knows well,
I've still not shared with anyone
For fear of laughter if I'd tell.
It's good to have a private place
That's yours for childhood and when grown,
Where pretense plays a role quite real-
A spot to talk aloud alone.
©1973 Grit Publishing
Remembering youth and unfilled dreams,
I feel so sad, yet peaceful too,
Still glad to be alive, it seems.
Before a mirror I might stare
Or touch my face, though wrinkled be,
And wonder how my outside aged
When old I don't feel inwardly.
Aloud I speak for walls to hear
The inner thoughts, my mind knows well,
I've still not shared with anyone
For fear of laughter if I'd tell.
It's good to have a private place
That's yours for childhood and when grown,
Where pretense plays a role quite real-
A spot to talk aloud alone.
©1973 Grit Publishing
Sibanda is the author of Notes, Themes, Things And Other Things, The Gushungo Way, Sleeping Rivers, Love O’clock, The Dead Must Be Sobbing, Football of Fools, Cutting-edge Cache, Of the Saliva and the Tongue, When Inspiration Sings In Silence, The Way Forward, Sometimes Seasons Come With Unseasonal Harvests, As If They Minded:The Loudness Of Whispers, This Cannot Be Happening :Speaking Truth To Power, The Dangers Of Child Marriages:Billions Of Dollars Lost In Earnings And Human Capital, The Ndaba Jamela and Collections and Poetry Pharmacy. Sibanda's work has received Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominations. Some of his work has been translated into Serbian and German. |
Love Is Lovelier Than Luxury
His heart has taught Africa and the world
that love is lovelier than indulgence or gold.
One who would rather give money to charity
than live a lavish lifestyle. Incredible maturity.
He made a substantial donation to help build
a school in his home village. He’s kind and skilled.
He once gifted 300 Liverpool shirts to his home village.
He donated $693,000 to fund a hospital. What a privilege.
A rare, young philanthropist, a God-sent football megastar.
Sadio Mane is an extraordinarily modest African superstar.
that love is lovelier than indulgence or gold.
One who would rather give money to charity
than live a lavish lifestyle. Incredible maturity.
He made a substantial donation to help build
a school in his home village. He’s kind and skilled.
He once gifted 300 Liverpool shirts to his home village.
He donated $693,000 to fund a hospital. What a privilege.
A rare, young philanthropist, a God-sent football megastar.
Sadio Mane is an extraordinarily modest African superstar.
Our Valiant Virtuoso Marches On
He is marvelous when it comes to issues of development.
He has been named the nation`s hottest footballer at the moment.
In the field of play he outshines, dazzles and dribbles past opponents.
An inspiration, through his foundation, he pays school fees for students.
A philanthropic star midfielder who dribbled past poverty to prosperity.
A visionary, his academy is taking shape, it will propel others to immensity.
He plays as a central midfielder for English Premier League club Aston Villa
and the Zimbabwe national team. He plays with charisma and is a solid pillar.
He was an Under-13 player for Njube Sundowns before joining Bulawayo’s Bosso.
Since he excels, if football were music, Marvelous Nakamba would be a valiant virtuoso
He has been named the nation`s hottest footballer at the moment.
In the field of play he outshines, dazzles and dribbles past opponents.
An inspiration, through his foundation, he pays school fees for students.
A philanthropic star midfielder who dribbled past poverty to prosperity.
A visionary, his academy is taking shape, it will propel others to immensity.
He plays as a central midfielder for English Premier League club Aston Villa
and the Zimbabwe national team. He plays with charisma and is a solid pillar.
He was an Under-13 player for Njube Sundowns before joining Bulawayo’s Bosso.
Since he excels, if football were music, Marvelous Nakamba would be a valiant virtuoso
Why They Called Her Ms. M
She was a hungry,pushy and predatory kisser.
She didn’t like flowing water. She just didn’t.
Do you know who she was? Ms. M. Her name.
She was fond of people who were too lazy
to empty their kids’ wading pools. Those
were her victims too. She also adored
those who were too lazy to change
the water in their birdbaths.
She had no kind words
for those who kept the grass well-trimmed.
She resented them. She frowned at those
who walked in wooded or lush areas
while wearing long sleeves
and trousers. How dare them!
If ever one used an insect repellent,
then one was Ms. M`s
downright antagonist!
She fed on plant nectar
and water. She was no innocent kisser,
not at all. Ms. M was a maddening
and toxic kisser. She kissed one
and left one writhing and reeling
from a stinging sensation.
Where did the kissing lady live?
Well, she lived in grasslands
close to areas where folks lived.
Stagnant water was her much-
loved breeding ground,
her happy habitat.
Together with her friends,
they gathered in storm drains,
they boogied in abandoned birdbaths,
in blocked rain gutters, pools and ponds.
Do you know what she did?
Well, Ms. M kissed Mr. Dube.
How did she do it? She pierced
Mr Dube`s skin and fed on his blood!
Ms. M bit him, injecting her saliva
into the old man`s body while
draining off his blood. That
was no romantic kiss too.
I think bloody Ms. M was a vampire.
A bloodsucker. Mr. Dube felt the result
of her sharp kiss: a revealing red puffy bump.
Pain and itching held him hostage. Mr. Dube
whined as the bump became itchier, larger ,
redder and stiffer. He developed body aches,
a headache, and fever. Ms. M was unworried
and unavailable to respond to questions
on why her saliva carried bacteria,
parasites and viruses.
Ms. M had left an itchy welt behind.
Bloody Ms. M! What a stinging sensation.
Squealed Mr. Dube seeking medical attention.
The doctor talked about vaccinations
and medications. The specialist said
'‘M stands for Mosquito. At home,
once bitten, treat mosquito bites
by washing them with soap
and water or pain relievers
or other anti-itch
medications”.
She didn’t like flowing water. She just didn’t.
Do you know who she was? Ms. M. Her name.
She was fond of people who were too lazy
to empty their kids’ wading pools. Those
were her victims too. She also adored
those who were too lazy to change
the water in their birdbaths.
She had no kind words
for those who kept the grass well-trimmed.
She resented them. She frowned at those
who walked in wooded or lush areas
while wearing long sleeves
and trousers. How dare them!
If ever one used an insect repellent,
then one was Ms. M`s
downright antagonist!
She fed on plant nectar
and water. She was no innocent kisser,
not at all. Ms. M was a maddening
and toxic kisser. She kissed one
and left one writhing and reeling
from a stinging sensation.
Where did the kissing lady live?
Well, she lived in grasslands
close to areas where folks lived.
Stagnant water was her much-
loved breeding ground,
her happy habitat.
Together with her friends,
they gathered in storm drains,
they boogied in abandoned birdbaths,
in blocked rain gutters, pools and ponds.
Do you know what she did?
Well, Ms. M kissed Mr. Dube.
How did she do it? She pierced
Mr Dube`s skin and fed on his blood!
Ms. M bit him, injecting her saliva
into the old man`s body while
draining off his blood. That
was no romantic kiss too.
I think bloody Ms. M was a vampire.
A bloodsucker. Mr. Dube felt the result
of her sharp kiss: a revealing red puffy bump.
Pain and itching held him hostage. Mr. Dube
whined as the bump became itchier, larger ,
redder and stiffer. He developed body aches,
a headache, and fever. Ms. M was unworried
and unavailable to respond to questions
on why her saliva carried bacteria,
parasites and viruses.
Ms. M had left an itchy welt behind.
Bloody Ms. M! What a stinging sensation.
Squealed Mr. Dube seeking medical attention.
The doctor talked about vaccinations
and medications. The specialist said
'‘M stands for Mosquito. At home,
once bitten, treat mosquito bites
by washing them with soap
and water or pain relievers
or other anti-itch
medications”.
Not In Recorded History
Deadly droughts drained
And bubbled because of
A ferocious flash of furore
Let loose were temperatures
That made the world fierier
Than at any time in noted history
Seas acidifying, species on the brink
Of death, the earth barked a bitter welcome
To an unwelcoming upheaval of heat and hell
And bubbled because of
A ferocious flash of furore
Let loose were temperatures
That made the world fierier
Than at any time in noted history
Seas acidifying, species on the brink
Of death, the earth barked a bitter welcome
To an unwelcoming upheaval of heat and hell
Who Is A Boy?
you had better decoy
a boy, I see a misnomer
in all this: stated a man
they sought to interview
for the position of office boy,
however, he reminded the caller
that indeed he had applied for a job
as a 45 year-old man, not as a little boy!
a boy, I see a misnomer
in all this: stated a man
they sought to interview
for the position of office boy,
however, he reminded the caller
that indeed he had applied for a job
as a 45 year-old man, not as a little boy!
When I Was A Prevented Predator
A body divided into two distinct parts,
The collum, right behind the head, it sits;
The head houses the eyes, antennae and mouthparts,
The first part is the first body ring in a body with lots of rings,
The second part, the trunk, consists of several body rings;
I spotted her wriggling around with her four body rings,
The male had deposited a sperm packet on the ground,
The female millipede just picked it up and said: what a find!
I moved closer, she veiled a chemical that made me unsound!
The collum, right behind the head, it sits;
The head houses the eyes, antennae and mouthparts,
The first part is the first body ring in a body with lots of rings,
The second part, the trunk, consists of several body rings;
I spotted her wriggling around with her four body rings,
The male had deposited a sperm packet on the ground,
The female millipede just picked it up and said: what a find!
I moved closer, she veiled a chemical that made me unsound!
Playing Hide & Seek With The Shadows
when inebriation got the better of him
he began to perform a series of pranks,
he claimed to be standing on the beach,
looking at the ocean, watching the surf,
he alleged that the waves were rising
and breaking on the shore, and that
he was ready to crash them , to ride
them with his startling surfboard!
as a claimant he crowed that his sport
of riding a wave towards the shore
saw him stand on one swaying leg
or lie ,play a guitar on a surfboard!
as an observer of optical illusions
of foes in the distance, he reeled
away, yelling for help, a harbour,
tickled shadows gave him a good run,
he attempted at climbing the nearest tree,
the shrub gave his stoned sweat a stumbling gaffe
he began to perform a series of pranks,
he claimed to be standing on the beach,
looking at the ocean, watching the surf,
he alleged that the waves were rising
and breaking on the shore, and that
he was ready to crash them , to ride
them with his startling surfboard!
as a claimant he crowed that his sport
of riding a wave towards the shore
saw him stand on one swaying leg
or lie ,play a guitar on a surfboard!
as an observer of optical illusions
of foes in the distance, he reeled
away, yelling for help, a harbour,
tickled shadows gave him a good run,
he attempted at climbing the nearest tree,
the shrub gave his stoned sweat a stumbling gaffe
Poet Laureate Consultant Of Mthwakazi
I had shrunk in the noises of a slighting silence,
However, when the King of Mthwakazi appeared,
he pointed at the sun and its rays regally poured on me
like a shower, and I started to feel home and honored;
He also pointed at a cute clock and an array of chiefs.
.
There was a constellation of stars, like local
footballers, movie directors, socialites ,authors,
educators and motivators. There was a galaxy of
award-winning actors, sportspersons and journalists.
I saw icons and great thinkers. What remarkable talents!
There was a throng of human rightists, a bench of
uncaptured judges, a flock of religious folks and culturists.
There was a diaspora of people who worked and lived
in South Africa, Botswana, Namibia, Australia , US, UK,
New Zealand and several different parts of the world.
There was a regiment of activists, there was a swarm
of feminists and legislators. There was a troop of soldiers
and there a wave of police officers. There was a huddle
of elderly women and men, and a busload of singers and
dancers. Indeed, there was a lovely troupe of entertainers.
There was a band of musicians that belted out divine music.
The King showed me a host of editors and readers who were
keenly watching the proceedings virtually, waving at us.
On Zoom, I saw the new Mayor of Bulawayo, she was waving
at me with her assemblage of excited, charismatic councilors.
I saw eminent radio and TV personalities, TV script writers
and famous playwrights. The King was moving around with me,
with his entourage of advisors and security personnel, and a legion
of diplomats and officials from neighboring countries. I caught sight
of a nexus of my family members and relatives. I was speechless.
Some women wore headbands, thick knee-length cow-hide skirts
or short skirts made of grass or beaded cotton strings, necklaces,
beaded high heels or cute crotchet sandals or beaded sandals,
yet men wore animal skins and feathers, clusters of a cow`s tail
on the upper arm and underneath the knee, rubber batata sandals.
“There’s a mass of people from all walks of life, there’s a multitude.
This is a momentous occasion. All these people have gathered here
to honor you. Yes, you,” emphasized the King who wore ostrich feathers,
a leopard skin, a front apron and a rear apron or ibhetshu. He talked
about the restoration of values and dignity. I was stunned and confused.
The cheerful, revered and good-looking King took me on a tour
along Nkululeko road until we marched into an august building.
“This is our parliament”, said the King as I admired the scent
emanating from an entrance draped in a variety of superb trees
and flowers. What a parliamentary chamber, what a monument.
I marveled at its design. The architecture had a traditional touch
to it with a spear-shaped ceiling that shimmered with 30 000
aluminum panels. Its interiors were simple, yet colorful, delightful
and powerful. The circular space adorned with the statues of King
Mzilikazi and King Mambo, signified the history of a new nation.
The King continued,” Piker Press calls you a Prophet of Liberation. Do you have a pen
name? Do you sometimes publish under a different name?” I responded promptly,
“Bhija Jamela. I inherited that name from my grandpa. ” He smiled, “Great. We‘re
gathered here to appoint you as an officer of the royal household. As the Poet Laureate
of Mthwakazi, you’ll promote the reading and writing of poetry nationally”. What a vision!
However, when the King of Mthwakazi appeared,
he pointed at the sun and its rays regally poured on me
like a shower, and I started to feel home and honored;
He also pointed at a cute clock and an array of chiefs.
.
There was a constellation of stars, like local
footballers, movie directors, socialites ,authors,
educators and motivators. There was a galaxy of
award-winning actors, sportspersons and journalists.
I saw icons and great thinkers. What remarkable talents!
There was a throng of human rightists, a bench of
uncaptured judges, a flock of religious folks and culturists.
There was a diaspora of people who worked and lived
in South Africa, Botswana, Namibia, Australia , US, UK,
New Zealand and several different parts of the world.
There was a regiment of activists, there was a swarm
of feminists and legislators. There was a troop of soldiers
and there a wave of police officers. There was a huddle
of elderly women and men, and a busload of singers and
dancers. Indeed, there was a lovely troupe of entertainers.
There was a band of musicians that belted out divine music.
The King showed me a host of editors and readers who were
keenly watching the proceedings virtually, waving at us.
On Zoom, I saw the new Mayor of Bulawayo, she was waving
at me with her assemblage of excited, charismatic councilors.
I saw eminent radio and TV personalities, TV script writers
and famous playwrights. The King was moving around with me,
with his entourage of advisors and security personnel, and a legion
of diplomats and officials from neighboring countries. I caught sight
of a nexus of my family members and relatives. I was speechless.
Some women wore headbands, thick knee-length cow-hide skirts
or short skirts made of grass or beaded cotton strings, necklaces,
beaded high heels or cute crotchet sandals or beaded sandals,
yet men wore animal skins and feathers, clusters of a cow`s tail
on the upper arm and underneath the knee, rubber batata sandals.
“There’s a mass of people from all walks of life, there’s a multitude.
This is a momentous occasion. All these people have gathered here
to honor you. Yes, you,” emphasized the King who wore ostrich feathers,
a leopard skin, a front apron and a rear apron or ibhetshu. He talked
about the restoration of values and dignity. I was stunned and confused.
The cheerful, revered and good-looking King took me on a tour
along Nkululeko road until we marched into an august building.
“This is our parliament”, said the King as I admired the scent
emanating from an entrance draped in a variety of superb trees
and flowers. What a parliamentary chamber, what a monument.
I marveled at its design. The architecture had a traditional touch
to it with a spear-shaped ceiling that shimmered with 30 000
aluminum panels. Its interiors were simple, yet colorful, delightful
and powerful. The circular space adorned with the statues of King
Mzilikazi and King Mambo, signified the history of a new nation.
The King continued,” Piker Press calls you a Prophet of Liberation. Do you have a pen
name? Do you sometimes publish under a different name?” I responded promptly,
“Bhija Jamela. I inherited that name from my grandpa. ” He smiled, “Great. We‘re
gathered here to appoint you as an officer of the royal household. As the Poet Laureate
of Mthwakazi, you’ll promote the reading and writing of poetry nationally”. What a vision!
A Stockpile Of Memories And Ecstasies
they lit into life at a lively and lovely pace
her eyes were the divine stars whose grace
drew a striking streak between a nightfall
and the glowing & growing of a windfall
their warmness gave his quietness a chase
that shone a sun set to surge & embrace
they saw in him a museum: a depository
of memories, they told her of a love story
her eyes were the divine stars whose grace
drew a striking streak between a nightfall
and the glowing & growing of a windfall
their warmness gave his quietness a chase
that shone a sun set to surge & embrace
they saw in him a museum: a depository
of memories, they told her of a love story
Craig's had poems published in Agenda, Butcher’s Dog, Crannóg, The Dark Horse, The Interpreter’s House, The Literary Hatchet, The London Magazine, Magma, Neon, New Welsh Review, The North, Orbis, Poetry Ireland Review, Poetry Salzburg Review, Prole, Rat's Ass Review, The Rialto, Stand, Southword, THINK and Under The Radar. |
Terminus
Decades pass and I still watch you cradle
that glass of brandy, your eyes wept out,
while I fail to comfort you
for love’s disrepair – the energy gone,
each no longer willing the other one on.
Around us the bar’s busy, and the station outside –
the past herding its nameless extras along,
authentic to the recalled frame
of our half-hidden scene within:
the expensive spirit, the waste and shame.
Far from then, you’ll live so different
and, as I’ll come to learn, better,
though I can’t lean across that tabletop
to tell you so, convincing your tears
or my ineffectual concern.
With nowhere to go I leave us there,
walk out to meet the rushing never-changed,
cross the concourse without looking back,
board the train we never took,
watch buildings pass, shadowed streets,
trees and fields opening beyond the glass
an undivided view of what – till then,
sitting in that station bar – we never knew
would leave little more of us than sits there still,
sad and unforgiving, not yet alone, not one again.
that glass of brandy, your eyes wept out,
while I fail to comfort you
for love’s disrepair – the energy gone,
each no longer willing the other one on.
Around us the bar’s busy, and the station outside –
the past herding its nameless extras along,
authentic to the recalled frame
of our half-hidden scene within:
the expensive spirit, the waste and shame.
Far from then, you’ll live so different
and, as I’ll come to learn, better,
though I can’t lean across that tabletop
to tell you so, convincing your tears
or my ineffectual concern.
With nowhere to go I leave us there,
walk out to meet the rushing never-changed,
cross the concourse without looking back,
board the train we never took,
watch buildings pass, shadowed streets,
trees and fields opening beyond the glass
an undivided view of what – till then,
sitting in that station bar – we never knew
would leave little more of us than sits there still,
sad and unforgiving, not yet alone, not one again.
Country Boat
Each day passing this harbour of cattle and grass,
tall oak, thorn bush, the willow seed’s careless spume
where a boat lies, tilted, its cracked prow cutting the sky.
Does anyone, in bare July, slide its flaking keel
to the tiny pond behind – barely bigger than itself –
just to feel its reason?
Beneath its cover’s ragged canvas does rain gather,
wetting the wrong side?
Do the boards shrink, year on year, leaking like a shore
as the green around and the blue above ebb and flow?
Is there nothing it could do in water now but drown?
Nothing left for it
save this dry repetition – back and forth each day,
sliding from its pity like a tide?
tall oak, thorn bush, the willow seed’s careless spume
where a boat lies, tilted, its cracked prow cutting the sky.
Does anyone, in bare July, slide its flaking keel
to the tiny pond behind – barely bigger than itself –
just to feel its reason?
Beneath its cover’s ragged canvas does rain gather,
wetting the wrong side?
Do the boards shrink, year on year, leaking like a shore
as the green around and the blue above ebb and flow?
Is there nothing it could do in water now but drown?
Nothing left for it
save this dry repetition – back and forth each day,
sliding from its pity like a tide?
Sentries
‘Here we’re like sentries, watching anxiously,
guarding every locked-up hurt and secret.’
Seamus Heaney
Staring out at shapeless haunting’s
unreflected years until,
one restful, mild afternoon – breezes ruffling
the heather, tethered beasts bleating
under a high, rainless grey, and nothing
on the pale horizon but faded hills infolding –
we turn to look at what we guard
and see how strange it has become.
As if whatever forces settled there long before
had limited neglect with their own wall,
their own border, from where – resentful
and mistrusting – forgotten faces stare.
guarding every locked-up hurt and secret.’
Seamus Heaney
Staring out at shapeless haunting’s
unreflected years until,
one restful, mild afternoon – breezes ruffling
the heather, tethered beasts bleating
under a high, rainless grey, and nothing
on the pale horizon but faded hills infolding –
we turn to look at what we guard
and see how strange it has become.
As if whatever forces settled there long before
had limited neglect with their own wall,
their own border, from where – resentful
and mistrusting – forgotten faces stare.
Sycophancy
Programmed to be a parasite
and pimped as a pumpkin
obsequious and earthbound
but ingratiating as a grape
to graduate as vintage flattery.
and pimped as a pumpkin
obsequious and earthbound
but ingratiating as a grape
to graduate as vintage flattery.
Ghetto
Living on the edge of an abyss
on carpets of broken glass
shunned by a disconsolate sun
unhappily born in a manger
a mythical saviour called Jesus.
on carpets of broken glass
shunned by a disconsolate sun
unhappily born in a manger
a mythical saviour called Jesus.
The Money-pot
The Federal Reserve
is the preserve
of the rich and powerful
io print money
for wealthy corporations
with collateral
to buy back their shares
and add value
to mega rich companies
but not improve
the American economy.
is the preserve
of the rich and powerful
io print money
for wealthy corporations
with collateral
to buy back their shares
and add value
to mega rich companies
but not improve
the American economy.
DAH’s ninth poetry collection is SPHERICAL (Argotist Press), and his poems have been published by editors from the US, UK, Ireland, Germany, Italy, France, Canada, Spain, Poland, Philippines, Singapore, Africa, Australia, Japan and India. He is a multiple Pushcart nominee, Best Of The Net nominee, and the founding editor for the poetry critique group, The Lounge. DAH lives in Berkeley, California where he is working on the manuscript for his tenth poetry collection, and his poems have recently appeared in Poetry Now!, Straylight Magazine, Otoliths, The Cape Rock, Acumen Journal, Sandy River Review, Indian River Review, Junto Magazine, Mad Swirl Magazine, New Mexico Review, Setu Journal, Fishbowl Press, and Tokyo Poetry Journal. |
If Gravity Pulled Upward
What if all motion in the world
stopped at the same time. The calm
would be like a new god with a book
of tricks: fear would be the first to die
In this dream, the machines across
earth had broken down and
from around the world
one person could hear
another person laughing:
even the insects could be heard
crawling or flying. In the cities,
industry’s odor gave way to a pure
sobering existence. All electricity died.
In this dream I heard: what we need
is a new vocabulary, and a futuristic
child, not a deity but, a child with
a new language:
I lift up your hot dress and your cold body
is an infant star yet to leave its nebula
In this dream I heard: what we
need is touch, sensual touch, the
kind of touch between people
What if writing left a trail of smells
instead of words, and
the scent of wind told stories?
stopped at the same time. The calm
would be like a new god with a book
of tricks: fear would be the first to die
In this dream, the machines across
earth had broken down and
from around the world
one person could hear
another person laughing:
even the insects could be heard
crawling or flying. In the cities,
industry’s odor gave way to a pure
sobering existence. All electricity died.
In this dream I heard: what we need
is a new vocabulary, and a futuristic
child, not a deity but, a child with
a new language:
I lift up your hot dress and your cold body
is an infant star yet to leave its nebula
In this dream I heard: what we
need is touch, sensual touch, the
kind of touch between people
What if writing left a trail of smells
instead of words, and
the scent of wind told stories?
Far Beyond, Years Later
I saw the seasons in you
there in the tracks of moon
this is how I remember:
from girl
to woman
lover
Like a journey of layers
the seasons weaved baskets
where blind love tossed words
I felt all that I could feel
your impassive eyes
the dark bird, your heart
Far beyond, years later
this emptiness, a hole
set in place
appearing then disappearing
like a watermark
stamped on memory
there in the tracks of moon
this is how I remember:
from girl
to woman
lover
Like a journey of layers
the seasons weaved baskets
where blind love tossed words
I felt all that I could feel
your impassive eyes
the dark bird, your heart
Far beyond, years later
this emptiness, a hole
set in place
appearing then disappearing
like a watermark
stamped on memory
Like Clothes On A Dying Body
I’m not content, but I’m more content
than I’ve ever been: for what spins will
topple, for what topples loses its focus.
In a nest of thoughts, like a drunken folk
song, the mind’s never-ending questions
about the external things that drive men
mad. One must speak up to sort out the
ruptured nervous system: anger, love, joy
hate. Silence! In the mystique of mental ill
-ness, or in the realm of pure chaos, new
meanings rise, like the intelligence of dark
dreams, or the impulsiveness of lies: only
the madman is content: reality moves on
not caring how others feel, and if I outlive
you, like clothes on a dying body, if death
is the way to contentment, and honey turns
to stone, and glances are like fast windmills
then the carnage becomes the greasy fat of
men: it’s not without anguish that our trivial
lives will not escape the troubling purpose for
being created. If only to live without tightened
throats, or something less cruel: it’s true, we mi
-ght as well be the threadbare pavement stomp
-ed on by the heavy thugs.
than I’ve ever been: for what spins will
topple, for what topples loses its focus.
In a nest of thoughts, like a drunken folk
song, the mind’s never-ending questions
about the external things that drive men
mad. One must speak up to sort out the
ruptured nervous system: anger, love, joy
hate. Silence! In the mystique of mental ill
-ness, or in the realm of pure chaos, new
meanings rise, like the intelligence of dark
dreams, or the impulsiveness of lies: only
the madman is content: reality moves on
not caring how others feel, and if I outlive
you, like clothes on a dying body, if death
is the way to contentment, and honey turns
to stone, and glances are like fast windmills
then the carnage becomes the greasy fat of
men: it’s not without anguish that our trivial
lives will not escape the troubling purpose for
being created. If only to live without tightened
throats, or something less cruel: it’s true, we mi
-ght as well be the threadbare pavement stomp
-ed on by the heavy thugs.
Invention Of A New Meaning
Humans are in the wrong place
We don’t belong here
this is not our home. We must
disengage from gravity.
We’ve been tricked into believing
otherwise.
We don’t belong here: disengage.
We are in the wrong place.
Recharge your imagination: let go.
The truth has been lying to us
take comfort in knowing this.
If we stay here
we’ll lose our sense of logic.
The truth has lied.
We don’t belong here. This is
not our home.
We need a new truth: use your
imagination.
We need to silence language
––use your imagination:
the truth is lying.
We don’t belong here
this is not our home. We must
disengage from gravity.
We’ve been tricked into believing
otherwise.
We don’t belong here: disengage.
We are in the wrong place.
Recharge your imagination: let go.
The truth has been lying to us
take comfort in knowing this.
If we stay here
we’ll lose our sense of logic.
The truth has lied.
We don’t belong here. This is
not our home.
We need a new truth: use your
imagination.
We need to silence language
––use your imagination:
the truth is lying.
Isabella
A small hand of rain opens
kicking up the dust that hangs
like fables from books
The sun, a broken candlemaker
tucked into the horizon
A breeze taunts the cracked leaves
Between us it was tribal
the conjuring of eyes
the tinder, kindling, flames
and your body, an ebony vase
turning in my hands
til the surface blushed
and my fingers, like flares
and you, Isabella, fruit of youth,
your glowing tongue, a flute
blew fire in my mouth
and my body of thin snow
melted under your darkness
kicking up the dust that hangs
like fables from books
The sun, a broken candlemaker
tucked into the horizon
A breeze taunts the cracked leaves
Between us it was tribal
the conjuring of eyes
the tinder, kindling, flames
and your body, an ebony vase
turning in my hands
til the surface blushed
and my fingers, like flares
and you, Isabella, fruit of youth,
your glowing tongue, a flute
blew fire in my mouth
and my body of thin snow
melted under your darkness
BREEZE
There is a soft breeze coming from a place I use to be
A sweet gust between the two of us
A truce of sorts if you want to call it that
A sort of cease fire still alive with the friendly fire
Now just because we have not lived our union faithfully
It does not mean that we can not grow old gracefully
You are great to make up with though, and after the pounding
After a million knockdown drag out fights, I stopped counting
Just a winning breeze to make you lose sleep
Just a cool breeze sailing over your seas
A battleship and destroyer of emotion to cross your ocean
An armada of mayhem with an encore of here we go again
Even as we rip the seams
A penny for your thoughts
A million for your dreams
I can’t breathe without you
And with you, you take my breath away
Then there is the appeasement
When we give one another the silent treatments.
My only regret
Being of keen mind and body that is sound
Is the short time we have together
I can certainly go some more rounds
THAT IS ALL HE WROTE
Here is a tale
That did not end well
A lot of them do
A lot of them don’t
Some are gladly written about
Some go up in smoke
It depends on who is reading
And who it was that wrote
I am
A really nice person
I don’t like to
Overstay my stay
A little dash of me
Goes a long way
But don’t get in my way
I’m driving this big bus
There is no room
For the two of us
You had your chances
And I had mine
Add them up
Then subtract
Between fiction and fact
Either way, it will never add up
Even with the wind at our broken backs
I looked down
At my up-bringing
Looked down at my town
I didn’t belong there
I later discovered
I didn’t belong anywhere
\ So I said whatever
So I said who cares?
Well. For one, I do
But you would not know it
With the way I come thru
I learned to
Manage my situations
At the helm
At the controls
I had to navigate my solo moves
Without leasing my soul
Sing along
With the out of tune band
All done sincerely
Without tipping my hand
It worked out good
If only in my minds neighborhood
Everyone
Has a place or two
They can go to and grovel
When you open the door
And exit your nice warm hovel
But look both ways as you slide thru your tunnels
The way of this world is
Every shit finds its shovel
YOU
We all leave behind
A body
And a body of work
With a smile
With a smirk
Anyways, that life thing was not easy
Most of the time I was a jerk
Maybe we all find out too late
What has already passed that was once our fate
That was once our faith
Learn to bless somehow
The thoughts in your brain
When you’re hopping and perking
Along with the sane
The thoughts that all the time were either sleeping or lurking Deep in your swamps
Silently clucking
So, what if my motor skills
Ran out of gas
Mind your own business
Brainwash your own ass
Ah but the wisdom
From experience
From our mouths that we blast
Of course, without learning
Not a thing from the past
Sit with your brethren
Smile as you feast
Try to pinpoint the year
You became such a beast
Whether saint or sinner
Only the winner goes to dinner
Then suddenly
A million teared and feared distance vaults
Now comes to a screeching halt
You will never really know me
But then again you do
I must look familiar
I am you
You can write this all down
On the cuff of your sleeve
It’s all so had to prove
Yet so easy to believe
Sophia Vesely, 19, is from Clearwater, Florida. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in W-Poesis, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, The Fiction Week Literary Review, The Blue Marble Review, Writer’s Egg Magazine, Bandit Fiction, Brown Bag Online, Girls Right the World, Bridge Ink, Route 7 Review, Down in the Dirt, Poetry Pacific, Oddville Press, Triggerfish Critical Review, Delmarva Review, The Big Windows Review, The Raven Review, El Portal, SLANT Poetry, and Steam Ticket. She also has a published poetry collection on Amazon.com entitled “The Road to Amour de Soi” that explores the complexities of first loves and heartbreak in order to empower young women through the notion of self-love.
Red-Hot Secrets
Our fire
of red-hot secrets,
once wildly vigorous
in the grand, stone-silenced
family hearth,
fed for generations
by sizeable logs of deceit
and an absence
of morals
that blanket.
Our family album,
all that remains
to kindle these flames
that have otherwise been stomped out,
as dead as the kin
who lie cold in our plot.
So let’s flip through the pages...
Gather ‘round,
with your roasting sticks,
marshmallows and chocolate,
to hear these ghost stories.
See here,
this is Uncle Stan.
Dead? Yes, at 37.
Children? Two whiny girls
(right there andddd there)
with hair obviously not curly enough
to hide the stubborn family nose.
Wife? This gold digger
(look, you can’t miss her),
the one with the gold chain
and gaudy pearl earrings.
Do you see what she’s holding?
(no, not the girl, the wife)
Well, it’s not actually lipstick.
What is it? Filled with arsenic, of course.
Shhhh.
May Uncle Stan rest in peace.
Look here,
this is Grandpa Charlie.
Dead? Yes, at 58.
Children? You know my mother
and my Auntie Theresa.
Profession? A driver,
but not the one of buses or taxis.
Then what? You see the Cadillac
he’s leaning up against?
I believe that was his getaway car.
Those leather seats
(look right behind his left arm)
weren’t always so bloody red.
Shhhh.
May Grandpa Charlie rest in peace.
Oh! My favorite photograph,
this is cousin Susie
(see, pictured centerfold)
with a giant sandcastle out on Long Island.
Dead? Yes, at 16.
Last seen? Passenger seat of the mayor’s convertible,
bound for Florida.
Oh my! Mayor’s wife throwing rocks at
her pretty head.
Shhhh.
May Susie rest in peace.
My marshmallow is burnt to a crisp.
We’d better close the album
before somebody smells the smoke.
of red-hot secrets,
once wildly vigorous
in the grand, stone-silenced
family hearth,
fed for generations
by sizeable logs of deceit
and an absence
of morals
that blanket.
Our family album,
all that remains
to kindle these flames
that have otherwise been stomped out,
as dead as the kin
who lie cold in our plot.
So let’s flip through the pages...
Gather ‘round,
with your roasting sticks,
marshmallows and chocolate,
to hear these ghost stories.
See here,
this is Uncle Stan.
Dead? Yes, at 37.
Children? Two whiny girls
(right there andddd there)
with hair obviously not curly enough
to hide the stubborn family nose.
Wife? This gold digger
(look, you can’t miss her),
the one with the gold chain
and gaudy pearl earrings.
Do you see what she’s holding?
(no, not the girl, the wife)
Well, it’s not actually lipstick.
What is it? Filled with arsenic, of course.
Shhhh.
May Uncle Stan rest in peace.
Look here,
this is Grandpa Charlie.
Dead? Yes, at 58.
Children? You know my mother
and my Auntie Theresa.
Profession? A driver,
but not the one of buses or taxis.
Then what? You see the Cadillac
he’s leaning up against?
I believe that was his getaway car.
Those leather seats
(look right behind his left arm)
weren’t always so bloody red.
Shhhh.
May Grandpa Charlie rest in peace.
Oh! My favorite photograph,
this is cousin Susie
(see, pictured centerfold)
with a giant sandcastle out on Long Island.
Dead? Yes, at 16.
Last seen? Passenger seat of the mayor’s convertible,
bound for Florida.
Oh my! Mayor’s wife throwing rocks at
her pretty head.
Shhhh.
May Susie rest in peace.
My marshmallow is burnt to a crisp.
We’d better close the album
before somebody smells the smoke.
Jeremy Gadd has contributed poems to literary magazines and periodicals in Australia, the USA, England, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Canada, New Zealand, Belgium, Sweden, Malaya and India. Before concentrating on his writing, he worked extensively in theatre in Australia and the UK and I have MA with Honours and PhD degrees from the University of New England. |
FOR COLIN
The pulse of the universe is concealed,
like a drop of fresh water inside a sea.
It exists within the breath of living entities,
in the contraction and expansion of a lung
perpetuating that from which life sprung.
Light was first longed for in Stygian darkness,
and, if seeking The Infinite, be guided:
any number can be combined
as many times as it can be divided
and even the finite is undefined.
To ascend, we must first descend:
to feel a presence is to discern its absence.
I held your hand as you died and
felt your soul begin its final glide.
like a drop of fresh water inside a sea.
It exists within the breath of living entities,
in the contraction and expansion of a lung
perpetuating that from which life sprung.
Light was first longed for in Stygian darkness,
and, if seeking The Infinite, be guided:
any number can be combined
as many times as it can be divided
and even the finite is undefined.
To ascend, we must first descend:
to feel a presence is to discern its absence.
I held your hand as you died and
felt your soul begin its final glide.
STAY A WHILE
Associates of younger days have
now all met their different ends and
I have only memories for friends;
memories embalmed in stone,
friends who no longer answer their phones.
And over there, in the gathering gloom,
stands a stranger in a cowl,
holding an hourglass and scythe,
regarding me with a scowl,
reminding me, no matter
how long ago it began,
all life has an allotted span.
I am alone and dark descends -
and, although I sit by myself,
your presence brings tranquility.
Reader, stay a while with me...
Your empathy is a companion by
my side, your compassion is my guide.
now all met their different ends and
I have only memories for friends;
memories embalmed in stone,
friends who no longer answer their phones.
And over there, in the gathering gloom,
stands a stranger in a cowl,
holding an hourglass and scythe,
regarding me with a scowl,
reminding me, no matter
how long ago it began,
all life has an allotted span.
I am alone and dark descends -
and, although I sit by myself,
your presence brings tranquility.
Reader, stay a while with me...
Your empathy is a companion by
my side, your compassion is my guide.
DEEP ARE THE DUNGEONS
Deep are the dungeons of the dawn
where evil waits and spawns.
High are the heroes of the atmosphere
ballooning there, feigning fear.
Long are the lips of the parasites
lasciviously licking soaring kites.
In between are those seldom seen,
those who could or might have been.
where evil waits and spawns.
High are the heroes of the atmosphere
ballooning there, feigning fear.
Long are the lips of the parasites
lasciviously licking soaring kites.
In between are those seldom seen,
those who could or might have been.
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