contemporary poetry
A Special Day
POSTED IN contemporary poetry July 1, 2013
A Special Day
Each time it comes around I search for words,
for what is just one day in every year,
that reveals itself in several iterations:
some bring celebration, some a tear;
some can bring together lasting friends
and then surprise you when you feel them sway
your otherwise unshaken disposition;
then some will come like any other day
and make you feel you sort of wish there would
be someone, who could make it otherwise;
bring you flowers, take you somewhere special,
for a picnic with some birds and butterflies.
Perhaps they will prepare a special meal,
the one you always relish, come what may;
command your sense of duty take a rest,
allow you to indulge yourself all day.
But, come the day, when someone says I love you
and brings a cup of tea for you in bed
and says this is your day, do as you will
doesn’t this mean just as much instead?
John Anstie
Fortune
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 29, 2013
FortuneThey see our hard earned fortune there,
in marbled city suites,
floating on a silky sail,
the nap of leather seats.We had the opportunity,
the pool of genes in code,
a secret reservation for
a public school and Spode.We had the opportunity
to own the reason why,
that predicates no chance for those
unable to comply.Our felony, was founded on
a life of common good,
to serve as flotsam in the sea
of guns and power and food.Consuming guns and power and food,
an irony indeed
that helps the cause of those, who crave
a hope of being freed?It’s more because they need the work
to feed their flesh and blood;
prevent starvation, declining health
and keep them from the flood.But threats to blood will ensure
their easy motivation.
So much to recommend the source
of limitless privation.They have much more, by way of help:
attention of the press;
the poets and the playwrights too,
but nothing of redress.It’s irony to say ’twas fuelled,
on rapid growth by debt
who is to benefit thereby,
who is to win and, yet …who is to say what fortune means
if nothing else but luck?
Should we condemn all those who have,
who wouldn’t give a buckfor those whose sad congenital crime,
their birthright, is to blame,
for them, their lot, their plight, their fight,
but who should feel the shame..?
UK
Compassion Hurts
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 26, 2013
Compassion HurtsConnected to everything
we carry the universe
or are crushed by it.
We must be strong to love
the world. It’s hard
to sit at the table
of earth’s worst horrors
My rich imagination
is the power that shoves
me off the seat of self
and shows how blind
my eyes turned in can be.Let me close enough to you
that your tears will appear
on my cheek, as you seek
to share experience
that I may never meet.
I must grow strong enough
to love the world as it is
and be empty enough
to stay with your pain.
Let us huddle together
to keep out the cold,
for we need eyes
that still can weep,
and smiles so big
we can’t see ourselves.
Gael Bage
UK
My Gran had a Time machine
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 26, 2013
My Gran had a Time machineMy Gran had a time machine
There’s no other explanation.
She had no CCTV screen
or snitches to grass me in,
from friends or neighbours looking
behind twitching curtains, unseen.
But she always knew what I had done
when I was naughty, bad or cursed,
or played cards on the Sabbath day
or stole or spat or worse.
No lie detector tests for her-
just those burning eyes
that looked deep down inside you.
and saw right through your lies.
She was always an old lady so
no point of view of a kid.
no secret mirrors or x-ray specs
or invisibility cloak where she hid.
She wasn’t psychic or a 7th daughter
Of a 7th daughter, it would seem
There’s no other explanation.
My Gran had a time machine
John Black
UK
Consolation
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 25, 2013
Consolation
I could be consoled with much less effort
than it takes to chase a fly from my face –
a smile, a nod of approval, the touch of a hand.
I prefer not, I rather prefer clinging
to this self-criticism of mine –
useless, shameless, a prison of guilt.
Natural in human terms,
a desire like the gravity of the earth –
pulling, holding its own, escape disallowed.
Supernatural in human terms,
an ability to rend the chains and fly –
free flight, passing the clouds, transcending the rules.
I prefer this, prefer to conclude
escape from this habitual gravity:
look up, reflect on life, transform into gold.
I could be inspired with much less effort
than it takes to take one step forward…
Authentic muse
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 23, 2013
Authentic museReleased from a life of freedom
into ties that are sheer delight.
my muse choreographs dreams,
her thoughts are a surreal canter
on the black stallion of night.
Blush of dawn illumines her flight.
her words eagle’s wings that soarover mountains and quicksilver seas.
in solitude flies far, she’s not free
yet feels complete. In shining hours
where indigo swirls high, she plays
with ghost forms afloat in the sky,
prehistoric and gene-crafted creatures,
images that meet her moments and runthe gamut of a wild imagination.
She endures suffering beset by doubts
and fears, understands others caught
in the net of illusion. She swears
that she will not ingest more seeds
of doubt and fear, severs a beanstalk
of melodrama and stems the tears.Accepting both darkness and light,
she blends imperceptibly with All.
by Gael Bage
Whatiwanabe
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 21, 2013
WhatiwanabeIf I were a poet
I’d teach the world to see
All of the verses
That dangle from a treeI’d snatch a cloud from the sky
And a fish from the sea
And with a wink of my eye
Make a whatiwannabeI’d publish my poems
On the sands of time
Let them scatter in the wind
Of rhythm and rhymeI’d write a book
And all that it would say
Is “Here is the place
the whatiwannabe lay”
Emily (An Acrostic)
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 19, 2013
Emily (An Acrostic)
Twenty One today. – I recall
When you were just a babe in arms.
Every finger and toe so small,
Nose so cute and perfect smile to charm
The birds down from the highest tree.
Yea big – nestling neatly in my arms.
On this your birthday, I can see
Nothing I would ever change. You’re
Everything I dreamed and hoped you’d be.John Black
UK
Our First Meeting
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 17, 2013
Our First Meeting
She closed her perfect hand
Around my index finger.
alert, content,
listening to the familiar beat
Of her mum’s heart
And forever after, in mine.
She looked at me and smiled.
Eyes, mouth and cheeks
in perfect harmony.
Melting my heart like snowflakes
On an un-gloved hand
And I was smitten.
I held her in my arms
Scared, awkward, and clumsily
cradling her tiny form:
One perfect moment in a timeless
bubble in my memory
Changing my life forever.
by John Black
UK
That word… you know
POSTED IN contemporary poetry June 17, 2013
That word… you knowThe doohickey in my thingamybob
Has got a broken widget,
and I can’t tell with all this stuff
my gizmo from my gadget.
My arm joint and my sitting
end are simply too confusing.A thingamyjjg is what I need
to fix my old contraption,
and nip this doubrey in the bud;
It’s damaging my gubbins.Whatshisname is coming over
to help me with the watsit.
His Doo-Dah will be just the job
to save the whatchamacallit.
I hope he doesn’t forget his bits
and bobs – he’s so forgetful.
That person said he’d lose his thing
If it hadn’t been … you know.by John BlackUK
