SPRING DEW
The lotion must have landed coldly
on your wistful lids
How my fingers want to crawl on you
like satin arachnids
but I felt the twitch in your reflex
and now I must confirm
the report that what I triggered
was a shiver not a squirm
for you shiver when fixated
and you squirm under duress
I can't halt the moisturizing process
after an undress
but your points of no return
uproot like tickled wisdom teeth
so I feel on, praying for the lotion
to be laced with drops of Lethe
Bear a cheekbone and a temple
I appeal inwardly
The anointment to your face
shall be delivered tenderly
Only fingertips, say one or two,
apply to the attention
granted to the pale pillow
of your neck before the tension
is spread out to the perimeters
of my unfurling hand
for ascension to the broader
reaches of your promised land
An ascension physically inverted
to enlighten to the south
cuing me to multitask
with rubbing hand and kissing mouth
Mortal are the goosebumps
anticipating application
of the oil that will lubricate
your cylinders for activation
Brittle feet will culminate
the ceremony of your glisten
and our centers will align
and for a sound of sorts I'll listen
THE WOMAN
The proverbial angel incarnate
She sits at the throne akin to thou's perfection
More so in the case of love and care
Beauty and brains, she carries it all
Humbleness and honesty; companions to her soul
The essence of humankind
The epitome of a mindful heart
The Woman
I praise her for her deliberations
Her constant afflictions, which she dares much to
face
The whisker of pain, from the ocean that's her eyes
She deprives hate and pain the ability to stand
I am endeared to her; the woman
Who is bright and wise
Who shines the duty that is bestowed upon her
She nutures, feeds and educates
She loves, cries, smiles and hugs
She upholds the care of our Lord and Father
She is in nature, a priceless jewel
I hail the woman
Who is the ingredient for the perfect recipe who is
concerned about her character and seeks to
enfranchise the mystique of herself as a woman
Whom the mythical Gaea is her perfect apparition,
for in someway she resembles the mother goddess
in being a queen
Whom some cheap nail polish dosent make her
pretty but her words and actions voices her heart
as beautiful
Whom the principles of honesty and submission
reflects her dignity and earns her respect for being
the noble woman in the niche of society
The Woman
She has the timbre to comfort
Her tier supercedes the typical lass on the street
For she is indeed gratifying to a man who sees her
as a queen
'Cause she respects herself and upholds her
virtues.
© Eddy Ongili 2013
Imagine That
" Imagine there's no country,
it isn't hard to do."
I don't know about that line
Juan....I love my country!
I would rather sing the one
about the revolution!
We must sing out loud about
the killing that's going on!
We must show the world that
we will fight to be free!
There are too many people
dying in the streets.
Too many innocentes being
shot down.
Families torn apart....
" Peace isn't just a dream
it's a revolution! "
That my friend Juan
is why I fight for peace.
" When this is all over
and we are old men,
we will sing songs of
peace! "
Imagine that....
© Tlotli Mendoza
Written by Tlotli Mendoza, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 23rd Aprill 2013.
ANZAC DAY
We instill the ANZAC spirit
and the town was quite abuzz
with Bill the blacksmith's helper
and Joe the fuzzy-wuzz-
the kangaroos were languid
but the kookaburras laughed
when Jack the Kiwi trooper
asked the RSL for draught.
The bar-room girls they sniggered
and the diggers nudged their pals
and the bar-man looked to heaven
with his gaze took off the gals.
:"now here's a dandy rooster"
as he wiped change off the bar
and the punters wiped their noses
in that dry back country bar.
The kiwi was stuck for answers
as Jack Bunbury dropped his cue
and the silent wind grew drousy
and the eucalypts drew in their dew.
The pause was growing pregnant
and love might turn to hate-
but the barman smiled and poured a beer
as the kiwi uttered- "mate!"
Written by David George, first posted to the People's Poetry Bookshelf on 23rd April 2013.
THE NIGHTLY PROWLER
Silenced day flight birds
dreamily twist and toss,
in comfy soup bowl beds
of woven twig and moss.
Swivel parabolic ears,
to catch the remotest sound.
The chatter of radar bat
missing objects all around.
But I am graceful feline
not a canine sniffy dog.
A stealthily prowling tom
to other cats known as mog.
Not one of those alley cats
chasing young girl up rain-pipe.
I am something more than that
an aristocatty type.
I prowl the grassy banks
of a moon beam’s watery bed.
Searching for the mice and voles
as they snuggle down their head.
This is my lordly jungle
in scale I am the lion.
The grassy tufted tussock
is no less than lofty Zion.
My eyes are shiny beacons
un-reflective in the day.
Eye-lashed bright headlight beams
to freeze my nightly prey.
Humans don’t see me a hunter
as I purr upon their knees;
thinking in all innocence
only they I aim to please,
Cat-play toys are training me
for my night-time foray trips.
Then as pet return to them
and my willow basket kips.
The morning birds sing loudly
my prowler thoughts have come back.
If I hunt in the day-time
I will always find a snack.
OUT OF THEIR INEVITABLE MISERY
They are a firm fraternity
The remnants of the last storm
lingering like facsimiles of fossils
in a last stand against the irascible
bullets of frozen rain
and their grey pimples of abrasion
They are no match for
the crusty rock meringue I imagine
being whipped up by the plow of
the snowbound Philomelos and
blanketing the once-exquisite
drifts of despondent Demeter
like a dutiful but misguided son
They are mini-ramparts scoffing
at Spring's impatient innuendoes
of 7:30 sunsets
I am happy to be human for a change
and illiterate as any other animal
against the implied though
inexplicitly declared dialect of
warring seasons
It would be an exercise in hurt
to inform these stolid hills
they can meet the challenge of
departing Winter's insistence
on joining them under the divine
intimation of hibernation
before it's too late
for behind the rain
the golden veins of Helios
prepare to feed the flex of
heat's pectorals
and will come to mock the
frozen rain's failed bravado
with its syringes of Spring rays
They are no match for the Sun
and for once I'm happy to be human
illiterate as every other animal
against the unspoken though
obvious dialect of
warring seasons
COUPLE
the freshness of her touch
i sweetly munch
she mutters a moan
mine is like a groan
when i am coming
real and refreshing
she stands satisfied
but i unsatisfied
she said no more
for me till morn
you are a wife
not a knife
to cut short my desire
cos i am still on fire!
She says no
and ready to be my foe
i pleads for desire
she says she is no more on fire!
And that is d truth
i becomes mute
then she sleeps
but my feeling is deep
i untie the wrapper
and enter
she wakes (TO B CONTINUED)
