A cogent and powerful poem from David Barnes ...

of Perth, Australia, and webmaster of Numbat Poetry Journal, previously known as Poetry Down Under.  Many of us will remember some really powerful and exquisite poetry published on that site back in the 90's and into the new Millennium.  

 

The Poet 

                  "Paints on parchment".

         
          words that I read echoed, resonated within
        
  kindled fires, awakened emotions

           suppressed buried

                   I reached out a child seeking to touch a star

           the intensity-consonance of the language drew me

a moth to flames

           For within those words emerged a picture etched

on the canvas of my soul

           and I knew I had to paint.

© debarnes August 1999.

® Revised January 2008 18th

_______________________________

David and his journal can be found here:

www.aceonline.com.au/~db/numbat/pdu/frames/frame_menu_numbat.html

Do stop by and take a look.

Sebastian, from New York, USA, to intrigue you ...

with a unique poem today, can be found here:

http://allpoetry.com/poem/3928465

Intimate Portrayal

To sketch or to paint or to somehow relate

a visual rendering of one via lead, pastels, 

or oil is to absorb a multitude of minute details—

the tiny scar under the right eye formed after 

a childhood spat between siblings

or that slight gap between two front teeth 

never before noticed in everyday conversations…

To memorize then to reproduce those details 

is to learn then to know, intimately.

Yes, it would be insane to capture every leaf 

on a tree or every twig or every branch

but its trunk to its protruding roots

draws a sounder picture of its existence.

And it would be insane to draw every strand

of hair on one’s head as it would be maddening

to get to know you any more than I already do.

Check him out.

Now, Terry Gibson, DeeCrepit on Allpoetry.com ...

brings us a bilingual treat:

Histoire brisée 

Hélas, il n'y a rien à dire,
cet endroit est un peu pire
que nous l'avions entendu.
Beaucoup nous reste suspendu
sans nos amis qui, disparus,
ne seront jamais avec nous.

If you understood these words,
written in français brisé,
you would see how few rewards
are where all have gone away.
But time passes, il s'enfuit
sans aucun mot, et sans bruit.

The end of things no whimper gives
yet love remains behind and lives.

Author notes:

In French titles, only the first word has a capital. This is a quiet lament, after a group disperses.
Rhyming in French, especially for Rien sans toi. 

About to disappear in last position below, is the translation, transplanted here: 

Broken Story

Alas, there is nothing to say, 
this site is a bit worse 
than we thought it to be.
Such a lot remains suspended
without our friends who, disappeared,
will never be with us.

français brisé,--- broken French
But time passes, il s'enfuit-- 
it ran off
sans aucun mot, et sans bruit.
without a word and soundlessly.

(It's better in French)

She is a 77 year old woman from Canada. 

In her own words:  

"Myself? Survived 48 years of marriage, 

four kids with kids of their own, 
5 grandkids, 35 years of teaching, 
a variety of cats and dogs, and one 
Masters Degree. Pretty good for a 
1942 graduate of grade 8!"

 She writes in English and in French.  You can find her here:

http://allpoetry.com/DeeCrepit  

Come and take a look.  She's well worth a long visit.

Today a treat ... Legend, an excellent poet ...

with a particularly fabulous poem to read in the middle of a snowstorm in February.  

April Shower

The bleakness has departed 
now that  winter’s left the scene
Springtime decorates my garden
with some forty shades of green

The daffodils smile sweetly
as they nestle in my eye
And they tip their golden bonnets
when the breeze gives out a sigh

On the lawn the sparrows bicker
each one fights to have its say
While refusing to be beaten
in  a petulant display

At the hedge a spider pauses 
to observe the task ahead
After checking his directions
casts another silken thread

Atop the blossomed apple tree
a lovesick turtle dove
Whispers tender words of passion
to entice his lady love 

Till a shadow comes a creeping
all along the flower bed
And a wayward little rain cloud 
softly trembles overhead 

Then my vision is deflected 
by two glistening drops of rain
Who like prima ballerinas
waltz across my windowpane

In a moment they’re devoured 
by a  never ending mass
Of fanatic Whirling Dervish
pirouetting on  the glass

Like  ripples on a millpond
I observe them as they glide
In a frantic race to glory
on a downward suicide

No  sooner  had it started
then the April shower ends
With a lonesome little raindrop
wildly searching for his friends

While a  wispy strand of vapour
slowly seeps across the land
As the sun warms up the garden
subtle changes take command

A daffodil stands weeping
with its golden bonnet torn 
While the pugilistic sparrows
preen in silence on the lawn

The spider stands bewildered
as he tries to understand
How someone  hung a silver tear
on every silken strand

The ardour of the turtle dove
has cooled for just a while 
And he sits beside his lady love
who wears a knowing smile

While I beside the casement
am enraptured by the sight
Of the ever changing spectacle
that April can incite

Here's a bit of autobiographical info from the man himself:

"My poetry style is a mixture of many things, but always Rhyme.

I like to add a little humour when ever i can, and try to look at things in a different way to other writers,
This does not always work , and sometime it turns out rubbish

I love reading up on the First World War,and can not believe some of the hardship and horrors they went through.

I used to work in construction as a scaffolder, before a spinal condition forced me to give that up.
This was when i took up writing poetry ,

There is little left to say, I am married with three daughters who are the world to me.
And apart from my condition I count myself as a very happy fortunate person

LIVING IN NOTTINGHAM ENGLAND"

Stop by and check him out.

Now, from Margaret Gibson, known as MargaretG

on Allpoetry.com, here's something to lighten up a cold winter day.

She can be found here by the way:    http://allpoetry.com/MargaretG

Margaret lives in Kiev, a lovely old city located on the Dnieper river in the Ukraine.

Kitchen Philosophy, or Sorting Beans

As quite a lot of my time is spent in the kitchen,
and life is happier spent cookin' than bitchin',
let me share with you what I think life means,
illustrated in the metaphor of BEANS.

Beans, we are told, are very nutritious food,
provided by God and farmers for our good,
which come in a variety of shapes and sizes,
as some called peas are beans in disguises.

Likewise, people come in many outward forms,
and it's hard to define any kind of norms,
but certainly, they are nothing like machines,
these multicoloured lovable human beans.

Most of the beans in the market are fine,
but a few bad ones take a lot of time,
first to see that they are not among the best,
and then to separate the rotten from the rest.

Great care must be taken for loved ones' sake,
to avoid the result of bad-bean belly-ache.
But don't over-analyse the badness of a bean,
just pitch it out, and get on with routine.

The family will certainly be getting thinner
if the cook studies beans instead of making dinner.
Good nutrition and good life take serious thought,
it all starts with putting good beans in the pot.


© Margaret I. Gibson, All rights reserved

Check her out!

And now, from Corey Harvard, also known as Claide ...

and a student at the University of South Alabama, we have this:

Not Afraid Anymore

Here’s to the doubts that you cynics enjoy
to express in your poisonous lore:
I have tasted the lies
in the glare of your eyes,
but I'm not afraid anymore.

These are the dreams that have carried my soul
and to this standing truth I'm secure:
You can drag every hope
from the fires of hell
to the waves of a treacherous shore,
and well-soaked or well-done
I will blaze like the sun 
because I'm not afraid anymore.

These are the scars
that you've left to my name
and I'm set for an infinite more.
If your aim is to break me
your focus is vain
because I'm not afraid anymore

Mock as you may, I shall spend all my days
chasing cobwebs away from the door.
And when strength fades to none,
forward still I shall run
because I'm not afraid anymore.

Author notes

"Accepted in "Oracle"; the fine arts publication at the University of South Alabama.

I wrote this poem when I was seventeen."

Corey writes primarily rhyme but his free verse is gaining in stature as his writing matures.  You can find him here:    http://allpoetry.com/Corey%20Harvard

Come and check out an inspiring and inspirational young poet who may someday surprise many people with his acute insight and abilities.

One of my own poems for this Sunday ...

And with no further ado ...


WE And THEY May Tear Our World Apart


This may bring out the best ... and the worst ... in us.
We stand on the brink of a precipice
boldly expounding our views.
We've ignored the things poverty brews
in our mad rush to hold ... and possess
We want only the best, and won't settle for less.
And the rest? Who cares? They're not here.
We've got TV and big cars ... and beer.
If someone, somewhere, is starving and poor,
what matter? He's not here at our door.
We must find some way that Earth's treasures
can be portioned in more equal measures.
But wait? What's that noise that I hear?
It's a clamor of outrage ... and fear.
"The bombs bursting in air" may return ...
for an encore ... and cities might burn.
While we're flocking to see Harry Potter,
they may bomb us, or poison the water.

"No man is an island", some say in disgust,
while they seek to reduce our proud cities to dust.

I hope everyone is having a good Sunday.

A little metaphysics from Pamela A Lamppa ...

whom you can find almost daily here:    http://allpoetry.com/poem/3907541

Cognition

True knowledge blooms
simply by realizing its place
when sight knows
that the petals are absent.

Come check her out.

Up today, Debashish Haar, a voice for progress and hope ...

and a resident of Southern Asia, residing in India.   He can be found here:  

  http://allpoetry.com/Ink%20Shadow

Now to his poem:

carte d'identité?

A man searches 
for emotional space, escapes
in the day, returns 
in the evening, and wakes up 
crowded in the night

inside a room that leads 
to abandoned rooms, 
where his heart beats,
mind returns every night,

where windows open and close
into interiors that change
like the faces in some crowd.

He is a theoretical physicist by training, took to poetry when he was a PhD student.

"Interests: reading a wide variety of literature, keeping aside personal domain of interest(non-equilibrium statistical mechanics, don't need to mention details I suppose). In poetry I am currently doing some experiments, and rapidly transforming my work. I don't think only form poetry demands discipline. I believe in William Carlos Williams, e.e. cummings, DH Lawrence or T. E. Hulme's philosophies/vers libre movement."


Debashish Haar has been published in the Hudson Review, Texas Review, Verse Daily, International Poetry Review, Pedestal Magazine, Poetic Diversity, Poetry International, Poetry Repairs Shop, Poetry Life and Times, Autumn Leaves, etc.

Come visit his pages and seek wisdom.

Happy Valentine's Day. Today, a special treat from Paula Biscardi,

fondly known as FRIDAYatFIVE on Allpoetry.com. 

You can find her here:    http://allpoetry.com/FRIDAYatFIVE

PAPA DOBLE` (tribute to Ernest Hemingway)

Then I was born seventy years too late
So I must be satisfied to love you
Only by your timeless words

Led by your passionate soul
Along the streets of Havana
I, the Trogon, your mate
Bereft, searching, tender
Pouring out my claiming song
Always wanting, never holding

Longing to touch, 
Embody and absorb into my soul
All the conviction of you
Every fiber dancing life
Binding our spirits through
Time…
Always

Come check her out.   Happy Valentine's Day, this Thursday, Feb. 14, 2007.

A good poem from Brendan O'Halloran ...

He can be found here:    http://allpoetry.com/Brendan%20OHalloran

Question Mark with Broken Wings

I met you in space,
rising on the power
of my own hot air.

You were Ursa Major and Sun,
compass, comfort, and companion in one.
I couldn't keep my bearings straight,
and like Icarus, I fell,
sorry to be unequal but grateful
for being outside the confinement of walls
that only reflected my own image.

But even stars need rest, and when you'd come down,
to my level with each passing day, I'd be ready
with splints and trebuchets to fix the wingspan
of solar flares and sleeping pills. You made me
believe that I could repair the cosmos in a 
single night, and each return galvanized
faith like fusion.

I would straighten your reach
until you became an exclamation mark in full bloom,
pointing to real norths, where Daedeluses will find
everything they need, until the ratio of the
blessings we have to the words we use to describe them
cuts the knot in the sign of infinity and searches
for numbers unknown, and I can hear the hammering
of nails to boards, keeping feathers in place.

You are not myth.

You keep planets in alignment, create the light that
makes life, and lead sailors out of dragons' backyards.
When I kiss you, my voice raises an octave from the helium
replacing the air you've stolen. So though you've given
me energy, given me sight, and protected me from the cold
vacuum for which I originally looked, the best thing 
you've ever done is give me something to worship.

And all I've ever given you is a parishioner. 

And yet, in proof that even deities can be bad at
arithmetic, you call us even.

And that question mark is back, in full flight,
over my grateful head.

Brendan hails from the great snowy Northland.  Check him out.

Rather Imaginative is ... rather imaginative. Her name is Carrie Lundberg.

You can find her here:   http://allpoetry.com/RatherImaginative

Paradigm Shifting . . .

Is my march in the ranks of pharisees
who raise a fist in willful ignorance
and lift their banners so self-righteously,
while chanting mantras in a fevered trance?

A self-important strut, a focus lost,
those hallowed words in red all but ignored,
the world's derision is the shameful cost
of marching in religion's rabid horde.

"Protect me, Jesus, from Your followers!"
This is the consequence of zealotry,
of "Christians" as misguided crusaders,
who pound the Book and scourge humanity.

I'd like to weep as scales fall from my eyes;
I've held hands with the devil in disguise.

She hails from Washington, USA.   Come by and visit sometime.

Advice from Jeff Green, known as cricketjeff to his friends ...

You can find him here:  http://Allpoetry.com/cricketjeff

Advice to a poet

Paint in a poem a place that you love
Show us your world as it's seen from above
Tell us in rhyme of the things that you do
Give to the reader the story of you

Dream us a dream of the life that you crave
A hero of childhood so manly and brave
The form doesn't matter, the art is the thing
Put up a poem that makes a heart sing

Some like fond sadness, it's whimsy for me
Tell us the tales of the visions you see
Weave us a spell that we'll never forget
But really just pen us your best poem yet

Dive to the depths of the way that you think
Show us the nectar that you love to drink
Guide us with fondness where-ever you go
Put all your wishes and fancies on show

A taste of the food that you think of as home
A step on the path where you wish you could roam
The beach where your sandcastles washed in the tide
A glimpse of the you that you think you should hide

Some like nostalgia, a love song for me
Sing us the songs that would let you fly free
Weave us a spell that we'll never forget
But really just pen us your best poem yet

Stop by and see him and check out the others whose fine poems have been featured here.  

From a good friend, E. Darcy Trie, Onerios13

which is her moniker on Allpoetry.com.

  You can visit her here:    http://allpoetry.com/onerios13

Rice

poa is chopping onions
as green as her hands are 
white and impatient of
slow elbows, 
aspirins and me

her hair is flat like flappers
with a face born in war
and grandpa dying young
of the lungs and so glad is she
that he never met 
me in my twenties

i say nothing
to the soup tasting of
red potatoes and disappointment
and stay cooked in her rage
in that voice heavy with tea
and obligation

her knuckles seems to say:

‘i have fed you, raised you 
in my bowls and milk attention’

and how i thanked her with 
quick doors 
those boys
and moments without her
cooking

i carefully ignore her
because i know
this cannot die
she is chinese soap operas
and ginger dumplings
sunday paigow and choking
on traditions of
the good granddaughter
that other granddaughter
who honors the spoon
and wooden sticks
coated in obedience 
and salt


so i do not speak
but pour her soup
and bind us again
beneath the quiet kitchen gods

bind us with
rice
&
the jasmine of her face

Check her out if you want to read some good poems.

From a good friend, Anna Emkah:

comes this fine little gem:

My Friend and Mentor

I met my friend almost two years ago
Have no idea now, how it actually went
All of a sudden we started talking 
About our poetry and personal events 
He told me about his fascination for Africa
And about France, of which his ancestry came 
About his fights for ‘human rights’ among people 
He gave me links to publish poetry, my aim.    


Ex-newsletter editor (for 7 years) for Dawn
Creator of poetry in various styles.
Rhymed verses he prefers and literary short stories
Including science fiction, which is also on his mind 
Villanettes & sonnets and couplets in rhyme  
An American Poet, who is quite renowned 
In ‘Writer's Digest top 100’, he excels
Noted in ‘Who’s Who In America’ & ‘…The World’.


He can look cool and a little stubborn 
But in reality he has a heart of gold 
Cannot stand people who are not honest
Or commenting on poems, being rude and bold
For him a poem needs to begin in delight
Made perfect with some wisdom at the end
He teaches me how and I learn from him
I welcome his support; he is my best friend.  

Anna can be found spinning her magic here:   http://allpoetry.com/Anna%20Emkah

Be sure to check her out.  She has a heart as big as all outdoors.  

A great sonnet from a great sonneteer, Larry Tilander.

If you aren't familiar with him, Larry is an inhabitant of the great snowy North country.  You can find him here:

http://Allpoetry.com/LarryATilander 

If you aren't familiar with him, by all means, come check

And without further ado, here's his marvelous sonnet:

Playground Of The Mind

We're children in the playground of the gods.
Mere time? Illusion made with flashing suns.
Eternity, the mind forever runs
Although the drooling body sits and nods.
What cares the mind for crass corporal things?
While souls go echoing through time and space.
Look past the lines that etch this Earthly face
To where the child's laughter ever rings.
'Tis there you find me now, will ever find.
Escape from drudgery, it is more real
Than bones, bites arthritics constantly feel.
Come. Join me in this playground of the mind.

We'll play forever in this park we've made.
While bones and other fleshly bothers fade.

Here comes Erin ...

who's a very accomplished poet.   He considers this to be one of his "best" poems:

Anima Cantus (hybridanelle #13)

There is a song that echoes in the soul,
silent swells of melody that crest in foaming chords
or fade to ripple lightly through the mind.

  Set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds
  that play the reeds on distant lakeside marshes,
  timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

      Vague emotions range across a scale of subtle tones
      like deep harmonic waves within the sea,
      silent swells of melody that crest in foaming chords.

  Inward temperaments are scored in every mode;
  dynamic sounds emerge in sundry measures,
  set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds.

      Conceptions fluctuate as psychic tides
      sweep essential overtones of meaning through the void
      like deep harmonic waves within the sea.

            Moments aggregate in streams of cheer and gloom
            till rivers sing their way through astral motions;
            timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

        Dreams irrupt with vital force from black foreboding depths
        as rich divergent strains of vibrant hue
        sweep essential overtones of meaning through the void.

      Indistinct impressions resonate within
      like woodwind solos etched against the moonrise,
      set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds.

        Perceptions cantillate in shifting shades,
        airs that shimmer half concealed or surge into awareness
        as rich divergent strains of vibrant hue.

            Feelings blend like cellos played in midnight woods
            where hidden hills resound their phasing movements;
            timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

  Welling up from karmic mists beyond our apprehension,
  there is a song that echoes in the soul,
  airs that shimmer half concealed or surge into awareness
  or fade to ripple lightly through the mind.

      Orphic intuitions pluck the thoughts and guide
      with themes of never-ending transformation—
      set adrift in consciousness like soughing winds,
      timbres merge and blend, reflecting every mood.

His name is Erin Thomas, and he lives in Ukiah, northern California.  His screenname is Zahhar, and he can be found here:    http://allpoetry.com/Zahhar

Incidentally ...

I would like to mention that anybody who's interested can check Linda out at her page on my website:

http://mindfulofpoetry.homestead.com/GuestPage8.html

Thanks for stopping by.

A wonderful poem by Linda Allbritten, a very good friend ...

Linda Allbritten, whom possibly some of you will remember as the co-host, with her husband, Roger, of Showemall Writer's Block, where many first began to get out feet wet on the internet.

                    Out of Their Element

                     The usual into the car,

                     out the electronic door

                     kind of day,

                     until the flashing lights 

                     of a Boulder city fire truck

                     warned people to pull over.

                     Was it an accident, 

                     a heart attack victim?

                     No, it was a humble Hereford steer

                     at the corner of Pearl and Ninth,

                     making a futile attempt 

                     to blend with the herds of people 

                     who stopped to point 

                     and stare in wonderment.

                     Head lowered in imitation 

                     of the woman ahead of him,

                     he followed in her footsteps 

                     through the flashing walk signal,

                     while she remained 

                     sublimely unaware of a 

                     thousand pounds of beef behind her,

                     trying so valiantly 

                     to find his way home, 

                     and knowing instinctively 

                     that he never would.

                     But the steer moved on, 

                     up the hill,

                     a trail of drool streaming from his lips,

                     while firemen 

                     stood helplessly by 

                     not knowing what to do 

                     with a low-tech animal

                     in a high-tech world 

                     where even a mouse 

                     is electronic.

Linda and Roger are remarkable people, and no one knows that better than I do.

A beautiful poem by a perspicacious poet, Michael Collings, known as micol on Allpoetry.com. ...

On the Inefficacy of Poetry

Why would I capture wings a-fire
    In sunset’s gilding glare;
Why would I compass the redwood’s pyre        
    Against a dawning flare; 

Or in sound re-create a mica-flash
    That stutters stark granite walls;
Or a violet’s glint on a window sash
    As the westering sun-stare falls;

Or riotous roses restrain within ink,
    In blunt-word black-on-white;
Struggle to limn ripe apricots’ pink,
    A falling leaf’s whimsical kite?

Yet still I pursue the mockingbird’s strain,
  Silk currents, unfettered and wild;
I struggle … and ever despair to attain
  The pure vision by which I’m beguiled.

by Michael R. Collings, a published writer and poet, Professor Emeritus of Pepperdine University -- with books available on Amazon.com and Wildside Press.  He can be found at http://Allpoetry.com/micol 

Famous sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How Do I Love Thee?

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 
I love thee to the level of every day's 
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. 
I love with a passion put to use 
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. 
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose 
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath, 
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose, 
I shall but love thee better after death.

I am particularly fond of this poem for a number of reasons.  If any of you have seen "A Little Romance", you may remember that it's mentioned in glowing terms in the movie by Lawrence Olivier's character.  If you haven't seen that movie, I highly recommend that you find it.  It's a great movie.

Another of my favorite poems ...

was written by a dear friend from Holly, Michigan, named Val Magnuson.  It is posted on my website against genocide, Voices For Africa:

www.voicesforAfrica.homestead.com/

Her poem is first up as she was the first to send a poem in those days before America knew about the horrific happenings in Darfur.

SING  LADY

           by Val Magnuson

Across the room she came,

the feathered Kwanzaa queen 

walking through clouds and

rainbows

into some noonday dream

sing lady-

of  border crossings

from sunshine lands

those portraits in blue sailings

and your flocks

wing to wing chainings

with Captain Midnight

and his boat flyers

over one way waves

sing lady-

spread your tatterings

paint portraits of sages and slave runners

those reflections 

of nudes descending

into towering cities

and their prostrations

and frustrations-

play some audio dna

of how life is so beautiful in america

sing lady

of the neo head

tell of the candidate for peace

that King man with rainbow sky

that ball of fire

who gave light to mountains

and had his own dream, stamps!

sing lady

of how we love america

that cosmic adventure

even if you're from canvas city

sing its resume

Val Magnuson  Copyright 2004

       (http://ValmMagnuson-com.com)

The picture is one of her purses (she makes them and sells them.  She donated the image for use no this site.