Theme:
Nazrul Song :
The eternal mid-fielder jersey, won't you have thy mercy?
The eternal mid-fielder jersey, won't you have thy mercy?
The ever-young heart, with a malleable intricate
Time took you away, gypsy mood, heard.
a solitude in contemplation, my reverie Lord!
In space , out there, out beyond
An absorbed state of whim, for lowly low, this body
A morale, breakable rule for an unbroken time, lulls on
a solitude in contemplation, my reverie lord!
stars and sun, and moon, playtime when days delight, yours
The indifferent, you
lying all and all, beneath thy feet
In platoons of fleet
The ordinary day with a grand, still, in nitty gritty
In glum and glee, only a tranquil serendipity
In whim of a smile, a tear of a soul, paired for evermore
a solitude in contemplation, my reverie lord!
25 people in a neighbourhood, could really
Impact the area for good' if ten
Committed gardeners keen; could, gave advice to
Others, say a minimum of fifteen? All within
A half-mile square. Gardens on a minimum
Also fifty feet square! To plant some fruit trees
And beds of veg? Rows of corn beside the
Shed to allow a beekeeper, for pollination
It would feed that group; could inspire a
Nation? On large village greens, would what be sown? I can
See possibilities
Almost endless on the growing I say a healthy initiative what say
You?
Could it be aided? Would the government help too?
That might mend
Some fences? and cause cohesion
With some in politics who aren’t just like a
Damaging lesion.'
©Joe Maverick 28-7-2023
Every day, the undercover soldier
Used to buy her big balloons
Red, blue, yellow, green, colourful and free
In those lazy afternoons
She let them fly with a smile on her face
Her laughter ringing around
He watched her do that every single day
And yet bought her balloons round
One day, he had to go for his duty
He gave her pink, new balloons
Said goodbye, rushed off to attack the foe
Missile launched from his platoons
His mission, a success, enemy killed
But some civilians died too
Pink balloons floating far away, cries heard
He had murdered her, he knew
He went to see her, that cute little girl
Just to pacify himself
He found her dead, her body strewn about
He could not forgive his self
Resigning his job, balloons, he now sells
But never rose-pink balloons
A little girl's death, heavy on his mind
In dreams, with her, he communes
In every child, he sees her lovely face
Laughing over her balloons
Silent tears flow from his penitent heart
As he sells "flying full moons"
10th Feb 2023
For Anthony Biaanco's "Balloons" contest
Lazy rain mown lawn
plenty of falling light
You are my perfect pitch
you are my constellation
Heather on her heath
Damsels and dragonflies
Crossing the bar
There's a strange echoe
Platoons of Granddaughters
Eyes distracted
Platoons of imps march up and down my street,
Threatening mayhem if I don't give them a treat!
There are cowboys, Indians and phantoms galore,
Holding me hostage at my own front door!
They present their goodie bags for me to fill;
(Giving them an apple doesn't at all thrill).
Sure, they'd prefer a Reese's or Snickers treat,
But, by jove, I'm keeping them for me to eat!
It was my birthday, only God knows the year
we played 8 ball, downed platoons of whiskey and beer
After last call things got a little hazy
The next day my buddy Jake filled in the blanks.
Seems I begged him to drive me to the sinful silver state...
Instead, he pacified me with a fifth of 180 proof.
The last thing I remember was tugging at my shoes.
The next morning, I found them between two panes of glass.
looking like a pair of patent leather jets that had run out of gas.
The landlord just shook his head, said get to work then laughed.
With head filled with neon mist and a fist filled with glaze...
I climbed up Jake's ladder and squared up with the pane.
based on a true story-the name was changed to protect the guilty
Memorial Day
Behind the pomp and circumstance
The celebrations and parades
Remember those who battled
The platoons and the brigades
Take some time to think now
Of the freedoms we possess
Of who fought the battle
Those who didn't second guess
Respect the soldiers duty
Give thanks to those who served
A handshake and a smile
Is worth a thousand words
It might be a long weekend
That many now will never see
Think of them this weekend
And give their life some dignity
Now, go and have a hotdog
Ride the float in the parade
Enjoy the fireworks exploding
Have a Happy Memorial Day
When need be
violence must be scripted without diction
the whole agly truth must make the pugent
In our world, need I say third
peaceful matching is an obscure tale, abominable by all jurisprudence
Headlines score cards for gallows humor, wrecking havoc makes for the highest bidder
World peace would only hold, when we're all a piece
when court rooms are too fair to be courted by hideous grooms
and the jury rejects quotations from below the helms
The things we do for justice sake, we willing to die for, fight foes, just to close case
You bet only a fly knows the pain of dying young, but it takes a week or two to give the niche a new look
The platoons, drawn by hefty promises to their payslips, our encounters at Tom Mboya are nominated for overtime
Sling shots might come in handy, don't take your chest to a gun fight
the loot is the down payment, break the tablets, pin it on Moses
No stones are to be left unturned, graphics are touch stone inspired
Better still,
thirsting to score touch down before dawn
steal the rail line at the Kibera sector
Only then
Will they take care of you and I
Idol is there seated plotting
cowrie shells baptized dollars
cow-hide suffocated with air
comfort women in their best
Cambridge fraternity with honors
commander with his platoons
sky-men in their spaceships
class room wizards with sleepy eye
Champagne , coca cola, carrots
These are the dying gods
that relax on high thrones
intoxicate conscience
roll away the Bible, Quran
and call on humanity
worship me, me, me alone
my kingdom I’ll give to you
The Banyan Tree
I the Atlas carry a home
My master strong for his
Children seven had built.
Shorts and skirts
Thunder up my shoulders,
All hell let lose,
With their galloping horse-hooves,
Ride up the stairs full a twenty.
Doomsday be here
While they make a merry!
Platoons of ghosts,
Burst through the door,
Somersaults quaking me, to and fro.
My arms aching in holding the floor,
Left and right till muscles do tear.
Roaring laughter through
Quaking windows four,
Trap door opens and shuts,
Opens and shuts.
Down they slide from
My shoulder to root,
Clinging and scraping
My shins a many.
One by one upto the stairs
And down to the root.
Witchcraft and magic
Can save me not
With wizards seven!
The lord I thank thee for the
Night so starry and breeze so cool!,
Nightly rest to heal my sores,
A generation over,
Another I do endure.
History changes not
With more furore!
Stout and and strong,
With roots many more,
I, the Banyan, will shade many more!
Balveen Cheema
September 9, 2015
Competition: Personification
This morning I put the apostrophe in
and this afternoon I took it out.
Oscar Wilde's comic wit
about the writer working hard.
Revision has lately become the sign
of seriousness, as in I revise
some poems a hundred times,
maybe more. A word of praise here,
a critical word there.
Before that there was the debate
if poems not stitched with end-sounds
were playing tennis without a net.
Late summer, August, hot, but
chickadees forming platoons.
Three months until the snow flies,
sure as the June my father died.
Having not done the things I wanted to do
and the things I've done not being what I wanted to do
I sit here looking at lichen on the north side of trees.
Black-capped chickadees
cheerful and truthful expression
grouped in platoons, sharing the point.
The tribes travel together
first finches, then chickadees
following the squirrels every morning.
What luxury, abundance! Handful after handful
of grass seed thrown, into wind.
The corn ripe and the rye with it.
The other main families: pines, roses, peas,
lilies, daisies, heath, birch and oak.
Maple, honeysuckle, pink, mustard, cypress, mint, olive, buckwheat,
primrose, willow, buttercup, saxifrage, snapdragon, cactus.
Truth may be ascertained by considering
the truth we feel, the truth we're told,
the truth we reason, and the truth we've seen.
It is so good to be a chickadee.
To tell the truth cheerfully and joyfully.
In a way that makes others want to live.
Pretty soon
It will be pretty June
The city comes alive
With blooming blasting tunes
Gangster goons
And their lovely lady loons
Stirring violence
Under the lunatic summer moon
Downtown pedestrian platoons
Hitting the nightclub saloons
Backrooms and thick exotic perfume
I can see everything
Without even leaving my room
In the evening clouded by medicinal fumes
Hop skipping across giant
Floating nitrous oxide balloons
My dreams are like poems, they come to me
through that unseen door to the unknown mind.
Why and when they come I know not--in my youth
they came as child's play first, then later as poems
of soft love and hard lust, some written, some lived.
As my youth aged, the poem-dreams faded,
until one forgotten day the great door slammed
shut without a sound....
For half a life-time it was sealed tight,
forever I believed--until some small wonder
chanced to pry it open... what I do not know:
perhaps the memory of a tangible dream,
a dream real as life of a long lost love.
Now the dreams come in platoons-- the poems
oft with them-- two sides of the same golden coin?
Blanket to blanket rests atop the sands
Evolving with bodies upon its threads
And nothing more is lovely than the hands
Castles are carved with curved in feet and heads
Hour after the hour, sunlight and sands
Beloved beauty befriends all to the beach
Loosely the waters cool our warmth with waves
All surfer dudes and surfboards colored peach
Navigate lakes as nomads do with caves
Kneeling to waves...surfer to surfer waives
Eclipsed by showers of a perfect wave
Tuned in by viewers that voice out and rave
Bring out your boats and beads and blue balloons
Intake the beach and all it is for man
Nice to see families and their platoons
Go out and play; swim trunks, sunlight and tan
Oh lovely day, and all shall come again
Johnny Sumler
Beach Blanket Bingo
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