the house of discontent « Result #2 Yesterday at 11:34am »
The house of Discontent
In the yard a cat snoozes in the new sun, while an old woman, sweeps cigarette butts off the dance floor. In hot, perfumed rooms, men are dressing avoid looking at sleeping women and crumbled sheets. On lips the taste of defeat, reeking of yesterday's booze and in tired eyes the bile of unhappy love ominously glint, there will be violence soon. The utter loneliness of paid for sex, nothing can be as pathetic as the sight of men seeking embrace of love at a house of sadness.
Sonata of war « Result #4 on Dec 18, 2009, 10:50am »
Sonata A symphony of car bombs, flying fingers...A man looks for body parts of his son, finds half of a foot, wraps them in a handkerchief; without a burial grief will be endless. Women will always wear black.
How much, how loud, must people scream before they are heard? How many must die?
In this macabre ballet, man is not made for intactness soaring through air. Dancers try, and try again, for a few seconds of wonder; it’s called art. Dame Margot and Rudolf sailed through the air. Magic moment, our applause passionate.
How much, how loud, must people scream before they are heard? How many must die?
These unreal Iraq wars, where there are no tall trees and new leaders are shadowy pygmies hiding behind walls, in green gardens that never run out of water for manicured lawns and there are frequent showers for those who live there.
How much, how loud, must people scream before they are heard? How many must die? People of Iraq are not looking for democracy as they should by an enchanted formula; water, sanitation, education, and freedom from western interference, are more important. A tall leader is needed; the last one had a fatal rendezvous with a noose.
How much, how loud, must people scream before they are heard? How many must die?
This weird war, motor-oil mixed with fresh blood, can only run on the machinery of hate; we onlookers are so tired, we feel not their fear -- not our kin -- the killing so far away. Iraq is another planet, thank God for that, and let bells toll.
How much, how loud, must people scream before they are heard? How many must die?
the third child « Result #8 on Dec 16, 2009, 10:34am »
The third child
I saw her in the picture sent to me she sat in a family group, her new husband, twin sons, who really are mine, his family and they were all smiling. Scrutinized her face to find a shadow of unhappiness, but no, and my sons too seem to have adapted well to a life of yachts and privileges.
Do they know they have a handicapped sister my wife was too busy to take care of? My little girl will always be a child, yet she is worth more than I have got. Days will come when she is alone, sent to a home and risks vanish into obscurity; so I must try, one more time, to appeal to my sons.
Love. The joy of first love can’t be copied, but man tries and tries to repeat this experience, and on his way causes much unhappiness for his craving of love’s impossibility. This last till he gets old and settles for simple friendship
Poems begin with a memory, thus a child cannot be a poet. But poems can also begin with a dream of a past that has yet to be a future. A child can do that it dreams and is therefore a bard no one listens to ‘cause a child talk gibberish.
how long is short time « Result #12 on Dec 10, 2009, 12:43pm »
How long or short is Time?
Got up early sat on a chair not reading or watching TV, time has been running too fast lately into the sand of a desert that doesn’t bloom; must slow time down to a trickle. After breakfast I went for a walk and took no interest in what I saw, back in my chair looking at the clock, yes the forenoon was endless and I was hungry, and finally lunch. In the afternoon I went for another walk, didn’t buy a paper I only get engrossed in what I read and time flies. Back home I sat in my chair watched a dipteral circle around, fell asleep and when I awoke it was seven in the evening, time I had saved that day had been wasted by me snoozing in a chair.
fortunate leaves « Result #13 on Dec 9, 2009, 12:00pm »
Fortunate Leaves. Some leaves are dark jade and yellow, others so gleaming pale green that you just now when they fall off trees they will not rot on the ground but fly and join ocean, because they are droplets of the seas that have tried life ashore for a season, but they are glad to be back to marine life. To ride the crest of a wave, to be a part of raw power, for nothing can stop water from going where it wants. Build dams and dikes it will keep the sea out for a while but only to a great wave comes along and smashes it all. Yet it was nice to be a leaf on an olive tree soak up the sun, to be almost still, tickled by the summer breeze and see beautiful butterflies, but ocean is their destiny it’s there they belong.
world record « Result #14 on Dec 8, 2009, 7:43pm »
World Record The clouds on the sky, sheep wool of the whitest kind ready to be made into jumpers and wooly winter socks. The sun shone meekly in the background so the wonder could be admired by those who cared to look up. A gray, loose fleece came floating along it had belonged to the world longest living sheep which had reached the venerable age of twenty three, had had its own pen and lived in air condition splendour. Yes, a ewe; and as she got older others sheep’s dumb baaing annoyed her, she had contempt for rams’ clumsy advances, thought she was a human and trendy, had her own popular page in facebook with photos and many bleats. As her fleece drifted westward, dark clouds filled the sky, much colder now and it began to rain.
An Omen? Following a track only used by the shepherd and his dusty sheep I saw, amongst sandstone rocks a pair of young olive trees it was clear that they were twins. One was healthy, bore tiny rosy olives and had green juicy leaves. Her sister had lost her leaves, bore no fruit, had xanthous fungi on her pallid bark and dying from self inflicted starvation and fatigue of mind. The strong tree leaned southerly, the precarious one Westerly and I wondered why?
Ice Roses Frost on windows? Not where I live now, but where I grew up, winter windows had thick layers of ice. And in mornings, before anyone got out of bed, I carved landscape and faces and saw my work fade slowly away, by noon I could see the landscape I had carved through clear windows, the mountain’s stream, frozen solid now, and trees; mother’s face also as she was busy in the kitchen baking bread. I do not miss the cold Nordic land I came from, but wish windows here too have frost roses, or be as blank as a new page I could write. “I love you on.”
footprints in the sky « Result #17 on Dec 4, 2009, 3:40pm »
Footprint in the Sky
From Paris to New York the biggest passenger plane in the world flew 525 souls, including the crew, with clean passports, sharp press in elegant suits and pride, no one mentioned the boring subject of footprint in the sky. 525 bodies bobbing about in mid Atlantic and where is the black box? Headline stuff for days a commission formed to find out what happened, human error or technical faults, insurance companies want to know, while a river of tears floods the runway. It has not occurred yet, but it is a benchmark. a crash less than that number is not headline stuff anymore, only a two second bulletin in the evening news.
garden implemnts « Result #18 on Dec 3, 2009, 4:40pm »
Garden Implements.
A rake and a fork, lean against a lemon tree, Idle, as soft rain gently downs. Their handler is indoors and yellow fruit are beacon in misty blue. Dowdy drops trickle down wooden shafts, the lawn sighs to no one in particular. The gardener too sighs as he listless leaves through yesterday’s paper.
garde3n implements « Result #19 on Dec 3, 2009, 4:38pm »
A Useful Poet This is a new document I don’t know what to write, should I be soft spoken (I do feel like shouting) or should I try to rhyme? Like never mind the truth As long as it sounds good. I could write about cats, dog, birds and butterflies, people like that and there is a perception that poetry should exude peace and tranquility and we must know by now that that is not true. My king is going to war again and have asked me to write a poem that makes people jingoistic ready to fight a wrong war, (all wars are wrong) and since I have been given a medal. as a man for all seasons I must comply, but I do feel like spitting on my own grave for it is not possible to be a poet and not defending those who starve and needs a voice to speak and defend their cause.
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