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.