ISSN:-0974-3057
ISSUE-V January 2009
All Selected Poems and Poets
20 Poems Featured in this ISSUE
Board of Directors, Editors and Administrators for Issue-V
Sonnet Mondal (Director and Mnaging Editor)
Dr. Ramesh Chandra Mukhopadhyaya (Asst. Director and Chief Editor)
Dinabandhu Nayak (Asst. Director and Chief Editor)Andrzej Filipowicz (Arts Adviser and Painter)
Dr. K.V. Venkataramana(Chief State Representative)
Dr. Subhendu Kar(Chief State Representative)
Kajal Mondal (Chief Coordinator)
Sadish Bala (chief editor/ administrator of the website)
First Writer Support Team.Dave Matthews (First Writer official)
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.
[Marianne Moore (1887-1972), U.S. poet. Poetry (l. 25-28). . . Oxford Book of American Verse, The. F. O. Matthiessen, ed. (1950) Oxford University Press.]
EDITORIAL
Stepping into the year 2009 did not mark anything special for poetry but poetry writing still continues to become the best way of expressing feelings and attitude.Fears and human weaknesses fall less before true poetic attitude. Taking a look at the submissions made in the net journals, websites and of course The Enchanting Verses we can proudly say that poetry is not dead but even youths are nowadays showing whole hearted will towards poetry reading and writing.Each one of our mind reamins occupied with sentiments, remembrances, nostalgia, hopes and wishes and poetry is a way to create snapshots of those in your diary.The love for this art form is increasing at a fast rate and in times to come we hope to see poets in each house in this earth.The present issue seem to speak on my behalf.
Here I would like to quote the words of Gertrude Stein to describe poetry-"Poetry is concerned with using with abusing, with losing with wanting, with denying with avoiding with adoring with replacing the noun. It is doing that always doing that, doing that and doing nothing but that. Poetry is doing nothing but using losing refusing and pleasing and betraying and caressing nouns. That is what poetry does, that is what poetry has to do no matter what kind of poetry it is. And there are a great many kinds of poetry."
Thank you,
The Editorial Board.
The Enchanting Verses International.
We dedicate this ISSUE to Emily Dickinson
Biography of Emily Dickinson
Emily Dickinson grew up in a prominent and prosperous household in Amherst, Massachusetts. Along with her younger siter Lavinia and older brother Austin, she experienced a quiet and reserved family life headed by her father Edward Dickinson. In a letter to Austin at law school, she once described the atmosphere in her father's house as "pretty much all sobriety." Her mother, Emily Norcross Dickinson, was not as powerful a presence in her life; she seems not to have been as emotionally accessible as Dickinson would have liked. Her daughter is said to have characterized her as not the sort of mother "to whom you hurry when you are troubled." Both parents raised Dickinson to be a cultured Christian woman who would one day be responsible for a family of her own. Her father attempted to protect her from reading books that might "joggle" her mind, particularly her religious faith, but Dickinson's individualistic instincts and irreverent sensibilities created conflicts that did not allow her to fall into step with the conventional piety, domesticity, and social duty prescribed by her father and the orthodox Congregationalism of Amherst. The Dickinsons were well known in Massachusetts. Her father was a lawyer and served as the treasurer of Amherst College (a position Austin eventually took up as well), and her grandfather was one of the college's founders. Although nineteenth-century politics, economics, and social issues do not appear in the foreground of her poetry, Dickinson lived in a family environment that was steeped in them: her father was an active town official and served in the General Court of Massachusetts, the State Senate, and the United States House of Representatives. Dickinson, however, withdrew not only from her father's public world but also from almost all social life in Amherst. She refused to see most people, and aside from a single year at South Hadley Female Seminary (now Mount Holyoke College), one excursion to Philadelphia and Washington, and several brief trips to Boston to see a doctor about eye problems, she lived all her life in her father's house. She dressed only in white and developed a reputation as a reclusive eccentric. Dickinson selected her own society carefully and frugally. Like her poetry, her relationship to the world was intensely reticent. Indeed, during the last twenty years of her life she rarely left the house. Though Dickinson never married, she had significant relationships with several men who were friends, confidantes, and mentors. She also enjoyed an intimate relationship with her friend Susan Huntington Gilbert, who became her sister-in-law by marrying Austin. Susan and her husband lived next door and were extremely close with Dickinson. Biographers have attempted to find in a number of her relationships the source for the passion of some of her love poems and letters, but no biographer has been able to identify definitely the object of Dickinson's love. What matters, of course, is not with whom she was in love--if, in fact, there was any single person--but that she wrote about such passions so intensely and convincingly in her poetry. Choosing to live life internally within the confines of her home, Dickinson brought her life into sharp focus. For she also chose to live within the limitless expanses of her imagination, a choice she was keenly aware of and which she described in one of her poems this way: "I dwell in Possibility." Her small circle of domestic life did not impinge upon her creative sensibilities. Like Henry David Thoreau, she simplified her life so that doing without was a means of being within. In a sense she redefined the meaning of deprivation because being denied something--whether it was faith, love, literary recognition, or some other desire--provided a sharper, more intense understanding than she would have experienced had she achieved what she wanted: "heaven,'" she wrote, "is what I cannot reach!" This line, along with many others, such as "Water, is taught by thirst" and "Success is counted sweetest / By those who ne'er succeed," suggest just how persistently she saw deprivation as a way of sensitizing herself to the value of what she was missing. For Dickinson hopeful expectation was always more satisfying than achieving a golden moment. Writers contemporary to her had little or no effect upon the style of her writing. In her own work she was original and innovative, but she did draw upon her knowledge of the Bible, classical myths, and Shakespeare for allusions and references in her poetry. She also used contemporary popular church hymns, transforming their standard rhythms into free-form hymn meters. Today, Dickinson is regarded as one of America's greatest poets, but when she died at the age of fifty-six after devoting most of her life to writing poetry, her nearly 2,000 poems--only a dozen of which were published anonymously during her lifetime--were unknown except to a small numbers of friends and relatives. Dickinson was not recognized as a major poet until the twentieth century, when modern readers ranked her as a major new voice whose literary innovations were unmatched by any other nineteenth-century poet in the United States. Dickinson neither completed many poems nor prepared them for publication. She wrote her drafts on scraps of paper, grocery lists, and the backs of recipes and used envelopes. Early editors of her poems took the liberty of making them more accessible to nineteenth-century readers when several volumes of selected poems were published in the 1890s. The poems were made to appear like traditional nineteenth-century verse by assigning them titles, rearranging their syntax, normalizing their grammar, and regularizing their capitalizations. Instead of dashes editors used standard punctuation; instead of the highly elliptical telegraphic lines so characteristic of her poems editors added articles, conjunctions, and prepositions to make them more readable and in line with conventional expectations. In addition, the poems were made more predictable by organizing them into categories such friends, nature, love, and death. Not until 1955, when Thomas Johnson published Dickinson's complete works in a form that attempted to be true to her manuscript versions, did readers have an opportunity to see the full range of her style and themes. . . . . Dickinson found irony, ambiguity, and paradox lurking in the simplest and commonest experiences. The materials and subject matter of her poetry are quite conventional. Her poems are filled with robins, bees, winter light, household items, and domestic duties. These materials represent the range of what she experienced in and around her father's house. She used them because they constituted so much of her life and, more importantly, because she found meanings latent in them. Though her world was simple, it was also complex in its beauties and its terrors. Her lyric poems captures impressions of particular moments, scenes, or moods, and she characteristically focuses upon topics such as nature, love, immorality, death, faith, doubt, pain, and the self. Though her materials were conventional, her treatment of them was innovative, because she was willing to break whatever poetic conventions stood in the way of the intensity of her thought and images. Her conciseness, brevity, and wit are tightly packed. Typically she offers her observations via one or two images that reveal her thought in a powerful manner. She once characterized her literary art by writing "My business is circumference." Her method is to reveal the inadequacy of declarative statements by evoking qualifications and questions with images that complicate firm assertions and affirmations. In one of her poems she describes her strategies this way: "Tell all the Truth but tell it slant--/ Success in Circuit lies." This might well stand as a working definition of Dickinson's aesthetics. Dickinson's poetry is challenging because it is radical and original in its rejection of most traditional nineteenth-century themes and techniques. Her poems require active engagement from the reader, because she seems to leave out so much with her elliptical style and remarkable contracting metaphors. But these apparent gaps are filled with meaning if we are sensitive to her use of devices such as personification, allusion, symbolism, and startling syntax and grammar. Since her use of dashes is sometimes puzzling, it helps to read her poems aloud to hear how carefully the words are arrange. What might seem intimidating on a silent page can surprise the reader with meaning when heard. It's also worth keeping in mind that Dickinson was not always consistent in her views and they can change from poems, to poem, depending upon how she felt at a given moment. Dickinson was less interested in absolute answers to questions than she was in examining and exploring their "circumference." from Michael Myers,Thinking and Writing About Literature, 138- ..
"Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!
"Heaven"—is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree—
Provided it do hopeless—hang—
That—"Heaven" is—to Me!
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud—
The interdicted Land—
Behind the Hill—the House behind—
There—Paradise—is found!
Her teasing Purples—Afternoons—
The credulous—decoy—
Enamored—of the Conjuror—
That spurned us—Yesterday!
BY Emily Dickinson
The Enchanting Poet Certification
The award goes to Vladimir Markelov
Autumn in Russia.
The wood seems to be tired.
Preparation of all alive to the lingering somnambulist.
Disturbing feelings of forthcoming separation, loss.
The last elaborate trees apparel in yellow-orange-purple colors.
Autumn had sewed to the trees exclusive sundresses.
And they flaunt, as if brides at the fair.
But tomorrow they will be shamelessly naked
by the severe husband November.
…Hard, gray-haired tresses of grasses had stretched along
a cooling down body of the earth –
the old mother-wet nurse.
Bustle of all alive. It’s no time to run into a stupor
with silly contemplation of the rash nature’s changes.
The senior brother of November is even more harsh.
Struggle for a survival comes from subconsciousness...
Cold lead jets flow downwards from the sky-watering can.
The empty, decomposed bird's-nest-caps are based upon
forgotten old pegs-antlers.
Sensation of the cold, the fallen asleep unreality…
Like winter landscapes of Brueghel.
Only fur-trees as an old maidens-votaries are majesticly quiet.
The God is mercy.
He had allowed them not to remove the green dresses.
And tomorrow the house-keeper of November will cover
the traces and marks of marriage-night
by white sheet.
Birches, maples, aspens will fall asleep at last…
Till the Spring...
By Vladimir Markelov, Russia
Editor's Choice-I Award Certification
The award goes to Tiffany Saxon
SHE
She who walks in devastation of her own confrontation
in relation, to the upset's of immoral motivation.
Clueless is she to the law of life's nominations,
complications in her search for the right
denominations.
Other's denounce her will.. Always trying to steal a
deal yet, actions of her kind, will oneday get her
killed.
Greed is the scene of one's own being.
Pressing the issue's of wanting and needing a certain
kind of bling.
Clink-Clink, Sound's of a big steel door, with shakles
dragging to the floor, So sore, From leaving the bricks
For the upcoming war...
The war is near no end.
She reflex back knowing, she has no other friend
yet, not trying to bend...
Fighting a battle she can't win.
She's holding a lost key trying to unlock the door of
reflection she knows as " SHE "
The End!
By Tiffany Saxon, USA
Editor's Choice -II Award Certification
The award goes to Jhonny Thermidor
Facts about you
Freedom Tower may be worth a billion,
But your touches are like the breath of life,
They are peerless and very precious.
A smile may be harmonious and suave,
But the way you curved your lips is like fire,
It keeps on kindling its strenuous brightness.
My house may be enlightened by candles,
But your eyes are like the lustrous stars,
They keep on illuminating my subdued face.
A line segment may be bounded,
But our nostalgic sentiment is unlimited,
It intersects the line between love and hate.
The global warming might be rising,
But your kisses are like refrigerated pineapple juices
They’re comforting and relishing my envious lips.
by Jhonny Thermidor
Editor's Choice -III Award Certification
The award goes to Agoudou Joseph Femi
Journey Of Love
I was walking towards a destination called LOVE armed with just a backpack.
I stumbled across a garden called INFATUATION.
I was attracted by pretty flowers which emitted scents known as SEDUCTION.
I reached out my hands to stroke them.
They morphed into thorns in milliseconds and bruised my HEART.
My heart bled so much that I was HEARTBROKEN.
I took my backpack named FAITH which is filled with HOPE and hopped on a caravan called PATIENCE.
The caravan journeyed on a haggard and stump filled road called HEARTBREAK.
PATIENCE urged me to disregard the discomfort of the ride and cling on to PERSEVERANCE so as to find TRUE LOVE.
I was forced to jump off the caravan and dropped into a sea called PROMISCUITY.
I submerged myself into this pool of infinite ECSTASIES devoid of EMOTIONS.
I almost got drowned by the strong currents of PROMISCUOUSNESS.
I was luckily washed ashore by a tidal wave called GRACE.
I was trapped on an island called FRIENDSHIP.
I straggled aimlessly amongst shrubs in a meadow called RELATIONSHIP.
Amongst some little rocks and topaz colored sea-shells, I found a beautiful flower called TRUE LOVE.
By Agoudou Joseph Femi
A Bird Kiss in December
A Bird Kiss in December
The trees shed the leaves away,
marking the end of fall,
and the beginning of a White Winter Wonderland.
Birds fly, and cry melodies within the midnight air -
the cool wakening air
of frost that
bitterly bights at the skins of
walking people.
Watching as if through a magnifying glass:
a Bird Kiss in December
is on display.
The soft beak touches the...
...ever smoother beak
and an image forms -
with the touch unceasingly silk.
it brings in the form of love!
The white Birds of December -
the movement of love in time
brings in the festive feast of
celebrations round and round the corner
of a turning point.
A movement so elegant, practised endlessly
by the White Birds of December:
moving towards the peak house
and then:
beaks ever so soft
touches
and within it brings the form of love
and joy to the watching of walking people...
By Celine Berghmans, Belgium.
Bewildered Soul
Bewildered Soul
God, tell me, who am I
Am I your passionate child
or someone who is wicked and wild.
Am I the one with aim and mission
or someone with distorted vision?
Am I like the child who never cries
or like a man who never tries?
Am I the one with loads of ambition
or someone trapped with full of inhibition.
Am I the one with peaceful mind
or someone whose soul and peace is hard to find.
In all these years
Full of cheers and tears
There is a question that always appears
Who am I! Who am I!
by Vaibhav Pandey
That’s you
That’s you
My mind ends analyzed
When it comes to tell my feels about you
I can’t move my hands because I realize
There is nothing enough to describe you
My feelings cant be expected by no seer
Without you I'll swim in sorrow
I'll dig my heart for you to peak
Peak inside to see how the others space is narrow
Without you in my life I'll shatter
Into pieces or maybe more
Going to hell is much better
Leaving me alone is my absolute doom
Living in this savage desert is impossible
Am weak when you’re away from my sight
when you are next to me, am invincible
You are the spark that makes my life bright
Your existence is my salvation
Encouraging me to face this life with the ultimate determination
By Mohammed Abbas AL-Mutawa
Sunny Day
Sunny Day
The sun shined heavily, and blessed my joy.
I left home walking in the streets,
trying to give some fun to men.
''Do Men need my optimistic poetry?
' I asked to the executioner with reassuring eyes,
equal to those of the poor peasants
who can see the Virgin Mary.
'Yes, of course,
the sun itself does not arise good thoughts in humans.
I recommend you to go to the bar of artists,
thinkers and other scrap.'
I reached there gasping my costly beauty.
At once, I heard whisperesses,
'What a nasty, and morbid joy he has,
his smile is outrageous''.
Then I asked for a mild beer
and put me to think about beauties.
I spread beautiful poetry,
through napkins and innocent poor devils,
that naively, claimed to be bearers of a pleasant lover.
My state of mind got excited, and soon was restless,
looking everywhere,
choking with drinks harder to swallow,
looking for flirtations of gratitude and admiration.
Nothing happened, besides anger.
' Do you want to compete with God and his magnificent work?
How much arrogance, your are no more than a worm,
bastard! ' they replied me.
Yes, God also told me this, I said.
My eyes clouded,
I was embarrassed, wondering how to seduce men.
I can seduce them urging them the fascination they have,
unconsciously, for sorrow and misery,
I concluded.
'I know where to find monstrous crimes,
prostitutes who were ripped because
they were mercenaries and unpleasant,
serial killers who kill those who do not suffer.
I recommend you, to suffer the most,
Penance is the only path to salvation.
The greater your penances, easier to enter paradise.
' I yelled. I was applauded, acclaimed.
I got very melancholy.
I asked a strong distillate and cried
for having to damn men to satisfy my vanity.
An old blue-eyed men,
who seamed to have a young spirit came to solace me.
'Let´s go, to anywhere,
my luxuriate flesh is exceptionally, wishing a spirit' I told him.
Felipe Barreto, Brazil.
I Remember The Used
I Remember The Used
I remember the used,
The ones abused,
Beaten to depression,
Tears of pain,
Lost in confusion,
A world black of hate.
Crying tunes of hate,
The minds of the used,
Now filled with confusion,
Their lives abused,
A state of pain,
The chain of depression.
The memories of depression,
The faces of hate,
Weighed down by pain,
Beaten and used,
The ones abused,
lost in confusion.
The label of confusion,
On a plate of depression,
Given to those abused,
The planted seeds of hate,
A bush beaten and used,
The thorns of pain.
An orchestra of pain,
With notes of confusion,
A song called used,
Interments of depression,
Plays tunes of hate,
To those abused.
This me world abused,
My life a world of pain,
Memories of hate,
The smell of confusion,
The darkness of my depression,
A life used.
The path for the used and abused,
Confusion of those in depression,
The hate caused by pain.
By Eric Michael Adams,USA
Motion
Motion
Everything in motion
Continues earth turning
Night and day on going
Should we get the notion
Sun does warm all the world
Beasts hosted in the wood
Sea provides healthy food
All stories can be told
Men wander round the globe
Seeking shelter fitting goals
But nature down in hole
Of mourning sky would sob
People mind should reveal
Cosmos motion's picture
As a guide to future
Toward bliss goes the wheel
He who doubts what he sees
Does believe what doesn't
Locked sight open won't
A sick mind in dark seas.
by Kassem Oude ,Lebanon
As beautiful as me
As beautiful as me
You cant resist my golden curves,
my haughty angelic reserve,
I am the colors in a painter's palette,
the irresistible Charlotte.
My eyes look like the sun in twilight,
fields of carnations smothered in sunlight.
I am as warm as sand, cool as dewdrops,
skin like the desert sand, making your breath stop.
I am sorry, you cant take your eyes off me,
Lilly of the valley, coral drops, potpourri
I am as true as a prayer, beautiful as a painting,
pure as mother's milk, ethereal beckoning.
It ain't my fault you fell in love,
my voice rings like bells, treasure trove,
as hot as a kiln, wet as a paint brush
lustrous hair, satin sheen, poetic hush.
l am as refreshing as water, I bring out the best in you
blazing star, trust me, you have the best view.
l am as plain as vanilla ice cream, crafty labyrinth
as dreamy as bed time stories, merely Jacinth
Don't blame me if you cant stop the feeling,
you were warned of the bolt of lightning
as bubbly as champagne, truthful as a mirror
I can read your thoughts, sexy conjuror
I am as kind as music, as witty as a child,
I cant help it if that drives you wild
tough as armour, brittle as toffee,
I am one of a kind, only as beautiful as me.
by Reshma Ramesh,India.
SOMETIMES
SOMETIMES
Sometimes,
I'm feel lonely,
sometimes,
I'm feel fulfil,
Sometimes,
I'm feel gratified,
and Sometimes,
I'm feel so satisfied.
But Sometimes,
I feel so empty,
and Sometimes,
I feel so preoccupied,
and Sometimes,
I feel so curious,
well Sometimes,
I'm feel a bit nervous.
I tell you what?
Sometimes,
I feel wonderful,
and most the times,
I feel sensible,
then Sometimes,
I feel so cute,
then sometimes,
when I'm in silly mood,
I would love,
to dive with my parachute!
But also sometimes,
I felt ignored,
and Sometimes,
I felt used,
but after know it,
I felt so much better,
and if most of the time,
I'm what I'm,
and do not worry,
about me,
because
in time to time,
I will always,
have a plan.
Then if you sometimes,
feel the same,
as I do,
don't worry too much,
because I'm sure,
you have got,
a plan too
by Gianni Pintus
Growing into adulthood
Growing into adulthood
I was young I never thought that I did have the problem
That I have today I guess when I was young I solved them
And how did I just blossom into one that holds so dear
Opinions of myself that hurt my confidence I'm near
The brink of a destruction because I remember not
The way of life I used to know, I was unique I fought
So very short but amazing it is to be a child
To carry oneself selfishly to act out and be wild
But now I have to think about the choices that I make
I have to be professional I have to schmooze and fake
And so I have a million problems I can not ignore
I try to look back on the life I lost that I adore
by Sarah Sisson
Meditation
Meditation
I close my eyes, and
the whisperings of the unknown
take birth in me,
like the spontaneity of a bubble
risen from the depth of ocean.
I lose myself in the ambience,
like granules of sand,
flowing in the wind.
I wander in lost lands
and fathomless voids,
in the nothingness of everything,
an aura, joyless and without pain.
And in the drunken joy,
of the sun that sets,
I feel myself, fulfilled again.
by Sarvesh Kulkarni
Virginity
Virginity
In the dark she was….
Not knowing there's even something called light.
She knew no peace ….
Cos there's a raging storm in her soul .
She is bound and enslaved ….
Cos she doesn’t know what it means to be freed.
From the light he came….
Not knowing a being was shackled in the dark.
He came with peace…
Which would eliminate the worries she bears as a burden.
He came with a liberating object….
Which would unshackle her slavery.
She needs to see the light….
Cos it would illuminate her dark world.
She needs to be in peace….
Cos it would quieten the raging storms in her soul.
She needs to be freed…
Cos it would liberate her being.
He made her see the light….
Which enabled her sight in ways she never imagined.
He made her feel the peace…
Which enabled the liberation of her soul.
He made her feel the freedom
Which enabled her flight to unimaginable heights .
By Agoudou Joseph Femi
Our very own Zion
Our very own Zion
In the midst of turmoil,
I still hear the whispers of unity-
Intensifying as we move forth
On the path of ideality.
Peace will be found
Embrace this wave of awakening;
Nurse every wound.
Charged with incandescent emotion
We will put an end to commotion;
And crush wickedness and racism
To return to our true devotion.
Fulfilling our mission from the Absolute Lord
The horizons will reflect only peace,
Which for so long was ignored.
Kill not for color, greed and money,
Be goodwill ambassadors, be peace makers,
Efface the agony, erase the grudge
Live in harmonic togetherness;
Live in peace, before it’s too late.
Even in this race of violence,
We have the same opportunity-
Of creating unity,
I have taken the first step,
Hoping the next will come from you.
Foster compassion and camaraderie,
Emotional trauma will alleviate;
Succeed in strangulating whizzes and booms,
To lead a life in high elate.
Cantillate songs of solidarity
Beyond the horizon, beyond the aphelion
Mother Earth will soon be united,
No more divided- our very own Zion.
by Chitra Lele
42 YEARS OF LIFE
42 YEARS OF LIFE
42 years of life you have given me Lord
And
I am grateful for
The gift of life
That is so precious to me
My tolerance and respect is built around people
On understanding and empathy
There is another world for me to embrace
I always question what are they saying
I can do so many things
I need to have a desire to do it Lord
It doesn't matter where I came from
The ability to triumph begins with me always
I like to say that risks always pays of
I learn what to do or not to do
I see your face in me
I talk to children about your love
They get interested
42 years of life that I am living
Here in this land
I show in the way that I want you to take me in your life
I want to show the world that I live and breath
I know about your love and grace
Lord have mercy on me
Lord I can't remember all the words that you have spoken
I had my days at the sea
I had many years in the wilderness
To turn back and find you Lord
I am a sinner just like a criminal
I am kissing you Lord and I am eager to deceive you
42 years of life came so fast
I had no time to enjoy it
I cry father forgive me
You said, I already did my child
I am the guilty man that hangs by your side
My shame is dying with your sacrifice
And all my fears came crashing down when I looked in your eyes
Are you listening to anything that I am saying Lord?
Because I am praying Lord
How many prayers can I say Lord?
Maybe the Lord will show up at my door today
Only the Lord knows what I am going through
I am not angry at you for asking
Give me hope
God I been waiting all this morning just to wake up
Next to you holding me
Lord I missed you like crazy
I am not the one who holds my pain inside
I am hiding my smile
I closed my eyes and looked myself away
The Lord is telling me
Child you have nothing to hide
The love of the Lord endures
I surrender
All my pressures
All my frustrations
All my anger
Gotta serve somebody
And there is no one better for me to serve than the Lord
Will I be healed some day?
You move me away from isolation Lord
I am making a potion that will cure my depression for once
Open my eyes
Loving and compassionate Lord
That I may be hold you
Walking beside me in my sorrow
42 years of life
Here I am after all
I been born 42 years ago
And I have all the reason to thank you Lord for being a part of my life
For 42 years
Deep down I know that I can set things straight in my life
Lord I remember when you kissed me before a thousand times
When love was truly right
There is a nice warm and cozy bed in the sky
Where I sleep
Every step I took on earth retreated
Lord is here and nothing can harm me
So all I ask you Lord is that you love me
Lord's world will warm me and calm me
The Lord will guide me
Lord please say you love me every time I am awake
Lord don't leave me in all this pain
Lord please don't leave me out in the rain
I am so happy that I have that cozy bed in the sky where I sleep
Bring back the nights
Please Lord dry up my tears
In my hands I am holding the bible
Your words are written in it
There is a constant change in my life
Heaven knows I done no wrong
I have to make it through this life some how
One day at a time
I see no bed of roses here in the sky
We share our love with each other Lord
Lord I want to be forever young
Don't treat me like a child
Never let my hand go
I trust you Lord
Let the others take the easy way
I take the hard one because there is no choice for me
Lord I know the meaning of love
Lord show the world that there is hope for me
Aldo Kraas
Chosen Entries
Poem For Tomorrow And Yesterday
Poem For Tomorrow And Yesterday
If you search for it and seek it…..,
The future holds promise……,
But if sadness haunts you……,
From past experiences…..,
You must move on……,
And try to forget…..,
Still you should be grateful…..,
Honored and thankful…..,
To have the both of them…..,
The former and the latter……,
Tomorrow and Yesterday…..,
Many are not nearly as lucky…..! ! ! !
….Trade Martin,2007.
BY Trade Martin
An angry poem about peace
An angry poem about peace
This is an angry poem.
About those weasel phrases
which blow like paper in the street
going nowhere,
hiding truth,
helping us to
deceive ourselves.
'The pee-yus pro-sayus' -
say it in the Irish voice
of obscurantist politicians
often enough
and we'll accept it as a term,
and believe that it needs hard work
and forward planning
and careful progress
and compromise
and agreements
and initiatives
and 'generous' concessions
and declarations of intention
and cautious examination
of opponents' motives
in the 'battle' for peace
and coming together
to establish differences...
Peace
is what is eternally there
when war and strife is absent.
Eternally.
I can't remember Christ
(was he Catholic or Protestant? I just can't remember...)
saying
'Peace process be unto you'...
uh, when would that be? ...
or commanding the waves of the Sea of Galilee
'Peace process - be still'...
somehow it just doesn't seem to carry weight
as a blessing or a do-it-now...
I wonder why that is.
BY Michael Shepherd
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