human condition poems

Svetlana, Strange | Stephen Mead

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All that yellowing—–
like Van Gogh’s portrait
of Madame Ginoux,
while from your grin of gums
two silver nubs brightly gleam.

Your eyes roll with an “oi vey”
shrug amid the swelling
while blisters bleed
an egg yolk stain
sunset to sunrise
over every bed pad.

We each take hold of a balloon limb
and look to you or your devoted
Chernobyl husband,
his rumbling Russian, that foreign
noise any heart can decipher,

and while we look, we hold
the going of golden Svetlana
in faith’s font of morphine,

the anguish, the light.

More at http://stephenmead.weebly.com/.

Our Lady | Igor Goldkind

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You are our lady
of grace.
And now your dress
Is flames.
The beauty of your sunken dome from a drone
Is a poem in itself.
Written by us and
Destroyed by chaos.

This is what we do that rivals the stature of the gods:
To astound ourselves and each other,
With the wonder of
Pure, enduring creation.
The sacrifice we all make to our better selves
Who gave buildings wings and
Laid the foundation stones of our own perfecting.

Epiphany is not found in the act of worship
It is to be found in the insight gained by gratitude for the world.
Exactly the way we built it.
Exactly the way we know it to be.
Whispered prayers are but poetry
That none other than you will listen to
But it is good to talk to yourself
To sing in harmony with all those other selves
Who are listening,

Wearing
Not false, but true masks
Revealing the kind of truth that can only be told with a lie.
The subtler architecture that creates heavens from grand spaces on this earth.
Reconstructing what can be seen behind your faces,
Behind all the saints who guard you,
Behind the divine grace of your stature.
The sensuousness of your catastrophe is breathtaking.

More at https://igorgoldkind.wordpress.com/.

Blanket | John Baverstock

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The boy was surrounded by the gang,
One looked straight into his eyes,
Then asked are you frightened man?
The boy who was black,
His eyes had fear written all over them,
Though he was never going to say yes to the question,
He had been subject to name calling and being bullied,
Throughout his short life,
Once being threatened by the gang wielding a knife,
Fear was relatively all he had ever known,
This because of his skin colour and its tone,
An onlooker rushed over and came to the boy’s aid,
The gang backed off, they could tell he was afraid,
What’s up with you lot? the onlooker said,
What has this boy done to you?
Why are you surrounding him?
You should be ashamed of yourselves,
Persecuting someone because of their colour of their skin,
Inside we are all the same,
We all have hearts, we all have lungs,
We breathe the same,
That is because we are the same,
You need to understand your shame,
Our skin is merely a blanket,
That is wrapped around our frame,
Inside we are the same…
That is because we are the same…

More at https://www.facebook.com/johnspoems.net/.

Legacy | Stan Morrison

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you won’t know by asking others
I’m much better worse than they’d say
don’t draft me on some graph paper
my equation is in so much disarray
I know well what my successes are
not everyone measures the same way
notice what I’ve done and stood for
that’s so far beyond just hearsay

The Grand Finale | Stan Morrison

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Too many hopes deferred
Expecting some sudden change
Too many hurtful words hurled
Regrettablyly exploded in haste
Too many injustices collected
Like I-wasn’t-gonna-say-but
I-always-you-never, you=always-I-never
Irretrievably launched into space
We couldn’t imagine there’d be flowers
Because of so much fallen snow

Craven Callings | Christine Emmert

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Ask me why I shake my soul
out from the downing deluge.
Ask me with a quieter voice
than the rage of storm.
You were called. Not I.
Do not expect company
when you enter the tempest.
The fireside along beckons me.
Craven callings die under the crackle of soothing flame.

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