Between | Mónika Tóth
My diary
Between two pages
A pressed red tulip
post poetry online
Passing by Atimonan, Quezon | Karlo Sevilla
Beneath late afternoon lightly sunned,
stretch of sea mirrors sky
and runs alongside strip of settled sand.
Through filmic gaps of sentinel trees,
tremulous palm of sinewy blue
offers my way home forwardly,
resolutely.
More at http://karlosevillaofquezoncity.blogspot.com/2016/10/s-list-of-published-poems-all-with-links.html.
Mock Talk | Himanshi Agrawal
Sometimes it’s okay not to talk
Sometimes it’s cool lot of talk
Let’s check your MOCK TALK
As u give mock test
Talk like conundrum if it is negative
Talk like straight forward if it is positive
Talk more
And appreciate lavishly
As we practice mock test
To be master in our subject
We also practice MOCK TALK
to be master in our words choice to speak
Either it is good or bad circumstances
Either it is debate or casual conversation
We should speak with the words
Which makes us CENTRAL OF ATTRACTION
central of attraction has lots of questions
Bcoz of the WORDS selection
Mock talk should be the activity in our section
To improve our speech & communication with perfection
Language is just a language of expression
But our Words of talk complete picture of our action
Words makes u speak
Good words makes u think
How much you thing u storm your brain
Brainstorming best exercise to think better
by analysing all the matters
So my dear readers
Practice mock talk
Think better
And speak better!
Your Name | Mónika Tóth
dedicated my nice Roamanian friend Vasile
your name
A tiny tattoo
On the sole of my feet
How I adore you
Dream | Liquid Gold
A great man once said demonstration speaks louder than conversation.
So instead of talking about travelling the world with you,
how about I just take you for a vacation?
A trip into the depths of my mind.
I think like no other person does,
I’m one of a kind.
Kind of you to even consider loving me knowing the amount of people you must have left behind.
The certainty in your actions make me believe that if time offered you a chance to rewind,
you would still choose to be mine.
A woman like you is a rarity,
losing you would scare me.
The missing piece to my puzzle,
you fit in my life perfectly.
Your attributes are admirable,
your achievements are legendary.
You’ve got the intelligence of a scientist,
just as well we got chemistry.
The way you inspire me to be better,
only you could bring that out of me.
Transmuting a man from copper to gold,
that’s your definition of alchemy.
As you stare out over the balcony seeing falcons and eagles,
hearing seagulls and beagles,
the animal kingdom appreciates you’re the queen of the jungle.
There’s no reason to mumble,
be loud and proud about it.
You have a bright future and there’s no doubt about it.
Alleviate my stress.
Let me levitate on your compliments. Complementary like condiments.
We don’t have time for arguments,
we break down issues and build up tents of security. Your vocal tone is filled with purity.
Soothe me with your lexicon,
your vast range of vocabulary.
Communication in a relationship is necessary.
Let me introduce you to my dictionary.
The emotions you elicit from me are beyond extraordinary.
I can feel the love in the air like its the middle of February.
Can’t call you my better half because you’re more than whole to me.
I know what you’re capable of and it’s time for the whole world to see.
Thoughts coming through my head right this second telling me to let you go.
But how could I ever do that when you’re the person that helps me grow?
I know it’s forbidden love but rules are made to be broken.
If I dream that we get married, I pray that I’m never woken.
Witnessing the Colour of Spring with Mark Hollis | Andy N
Broken in late evening sunshine
at the edge of Spring
there is a broken silence
sat alone in a deserted platform
counting the pauses in-between
the endless chatter of swallows
in search of an inheritance across the skies.
Whether Westwood bound
or looking inside out across a watershed
there is a sullen beauty
grief stricken written in rings of grass
over the nearby meadows
left stacked up prior to burning and replanting
for the lambs to run across wide-eyed.
Slamming shut moments in a wreath of tension
before the beauty is really formed
like prior to stepping out of a wardrobe
to visiting your version of Narnia
or creating your own personal Jerusalem
living another world to everything you see
before stepping onto a train never to return.
Death—the Destiny | Uiba Mangang
More than ninety morns and eves of hard labours
In the mere hope of feeding their dear souls
The peasants tilled, sowed and weeded in the fields.
Alas! Went awry all things and lost their labours
Of toiling under more than ninety moons, suns and showers.
When the floods that swept and drown all the grains-
An untold misery gifted by destiny of fierce farces!
A beautiful maiden in her teens
With the eyes of deer, the rosy wet soft lips
The rounded lotus face, the gesture of angelic walks
Was she an idol and role model of many fans
Of all young and old the adoration of all ages.
What a fate that befalls on her- the hard times
When from small pox or some black pestilence she suffers,
There ends her fairness, loveliness and all attractiveness.
Destiny is such of many beautiful adorable girls!
Modi,the tea seller- the 15th prime minister of India he becomes,
Lincoln, the hawker became the 18th president of US:
The great two counterparts of different periods,
The achievement of hard work and honest efforts,
What a beautiful destiny each of them gets!
May be many thousand moments of darkness
In a moment an immortal victory of gloriousness,
A moment of pleasure and happiness
May be many thousand days of sinful curse,
Or a beggar becomes an emperor of empresses,
Or, may be thousand years of hard works
A single moment of destruction to all destiny befalls:
The sky may be dry or may cry with flooded tears
The stars may shine or be shaken in flashes,
Except destiny nothing is certain in this world like this.
To be remembered with firmness
Caring, sharing, loving and living with togetherness
The sole satisfaction all souls can gain in all places
Before death or any fate befalls to all human beings
To maintan the natural laws and its unbreakable rules,
Otherwise nature provides every one its catastrophes
Whether one ignores the assigned duties or other takes the great risks,
Death is the ultimate destiny of all creatures.
Main-à-Dieu | Steven Fortune
I.
The Maritime epitome
leaks sensational exchanges
between moon magnets at play
Telephones open your eyes
Remember sweet nothings
stumbling shy and evasive on shore
and spraying its stones with cobalt kisses
‘ere tucking it in with the tides
II.
Without having consciously channeled
the Scottish mind for gesticulations
or affable sense of fashion
the hairs on my frame oscillate
in the unitary itch of a synthesis
Clouds shuffle in and shower me
with quaint accents
of Lambert and Connery
Dad’s origami of tape
in the Highlander VHS shell
A kind of magic
III.
Lock on and scoop up
the small islands swimming
like virtual pets in the jittery wilderness
of the ocean
Up the road the wharves exhale
eager to recast their splintered designs
on the ship-mother gut of Mira River
A blessing awaits its suitors
cruising in fresh paint
smoking Cape Islander uniforms
Water on water
recovers the fleet
to out-see the ragged red
floor denizens again
IV.
Old is alive
Small is endurable
Fishermen of a place old and small
are sponge toys under this sky’s
humdrum faucet drip
V.
Sample the pond in the womb of the meadow
Filter the fertile Atlantic stream for its insular
rock jewel
Let the screens show and suggest
that highlander fishermen still live here
Highlander could have been lived here
Truth — A Master Sculptor | Megha Sood
Truth,
a convoluted river
exists in the deepest of the ravine
like the glistening ends of the skies
it shines and glimmers in the darkness
/a beacon of hope/
for the crestfallen souls
when the darkness is sculpted
in our benign existence
screaming for hope
a dream so divine.
Truth,
cuts like a double-edged sword
through its serrated ends
slices the edges of the abyss,
/the irrational hem of the irrationality/
scrapes and scratches
resisting the erosion
those pointy convictions
moving ahead with time.
Truth,
an army of zillion stars
armed with sharp pointy ends
marches with synchronicity
carving and shaping the future
with its bloody knuckles
and it’s ferocity.
Truth,
a gaping mouth of the canyon
making it way from the steep walls
and the deep valleys
brings the shimmering piece
of the cerulean skies
longed by the bleary eyes
stuck in the ashen core of
the shared abyss,
our twisted reality.
Truth,
undeterred by the winds of resistance
chiseling and chipping away the lies
carves out a masterpiece
a beauty undefined,
damning and refuting your flagrant lies.
Truth,
a master sculptor in disguise.
Michael Jackson | Ciarán Parkes
In a dream Michael Jackson
is playing a concert in the town I live in
or a dream version of that town, beside a river
that doesn’t quite exist. Earlier, a priest
had preached a sermon, not quite condemning
Jackson from the pulpit, but talking about him
in such a way that no right thinking person
would be going to his concert. I watch him,
somehow from above, begin to sing
to an empty field in which there’s only
a sleeping homeless man and dog. The river
flows in front of him, makes the edge
of the stage he’s standing on. The light
is that light which sometimes comes in dreams,
brighter than normal light, as if it’s shining
from another world, in this case, from the one
outside the half closed curtains where the sun
is all set to wake me up but there’s still time
to see him realize the audience aren’t coming
and see how little it means to him. He sings
Don’t Stop ‘til You Get Enough or maybe one
of his mellow, mid-seventies hits like One
Day in Your Life or You’ve Got a Friend. His voice
the kind of voice you only hear in dreams
but, for him, just how he always sings
or how he always used to sing, back then. By now
a few odd people have started wandering in
to dance and sing along. The homeless man
and his dog have finally woken up and I’m
just about to, still half asleep, still listening
to Jackson in his blaze of sunlight, singing.
(First published in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily)