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Jangling Memory

Heavens above! here's an old tie of your--
Sea-green dragons stamped on a golden ground.
Ha! Ha! Ha! What children we were in those days.

Do you love me enough to wear it now?
Have you the courage of your pristine glories?
Ha! Ha! Ha! You laugh and shrug your shoulders.

Those were the days when a new tie spelt a fortune:
We wore it in turn--I flaunted it as a waist-belt.
Ha! Ha! Ha! What easily satisfied babies.

"I think I'll turn into a piano duster."
"Give it to me, I'll polish my slippers on it!"
Ha! Ha! Ha! The rag's not worth the dustbin.

"Throw the shabby old thing right out of the window;
Fling it into the faces of other children!"
Ha! Ha! Ha! We laughed and laughed till the tears
came!

poem by Katherine Mansfield
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Yearning For Bygone Days

Where are those sweet days?
When I was only a child
Worldly affairs had not spoiled my mind
The root cause of happiness
Lay in my innocent ignorance
I was as pure as white snow
How to deceive others I did not know
In God I had a great faith
Though much I was afraid of death
Love for me was only a question
That I could think without any tension
Going to school for me so far
Was like going to an endless war
Teachers approaching with duster and chalk
Appeared to me like a fearful hawk
The lecture proved to me a complete threat
I did not want them forever to meet
Homework for me was a huge burden
I had to ask them always for pardon
Gone are the days spent is the age

[...] Read more

poem by Vaibhav Shah
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London River

Half a score o' sailormen that want to sail once more,
Cruising round the waterside with the Peter at the fore!
Half a score o' sailormen the sea will never drown -
Seven days in open boats a-drifting up and down! -
Out to find another ship and sail from London Town!

Half a score o' sailormen broke and on the rocks,
Linking down Commercial Road, tramping round the Docks,
Half a score o' sailormen, torpedoed twice before,
Once was in the Channel chops, once was off the Nore,
Last was in the open sea five hundred mile from shore!

Half a score o' sailormen that want to sail again -
And her cargo's all aboard her, and it's blowing up for rain!
Half a score o' sailormen that won't come home to tea -
For she's dropping down the river with the Duster flying free -
Down the London River on the road to the open sea!

poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Workplace Jingle

From the crammed crypt to the script
A new sun has shone on me
It is the Son from Sonzone
And He says come work with me

Be you Martha in the fore
Or that Mary wearing shawl
There’s new lease of life at work
And He says come work with me

Yet one King will have to reign
For all those who want a rain
On their apron or their scalpel
And He says come work with me

When He comes as C-E-O
And you stand up on your toes
Transformation is on us
For He says come work with me

[...] Read more

poem by Moses Kainwo
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And I promise to reserve a seat for my lonesome Master

Still I am going to school and nobody sits in the class.
Peeled walls look so sad like an old fresco
And I think of my old friends.
A piece of chalk and the duster
Still remain in a corner on the rack below the blackboard.
Some letters were missing in the old essays but readable.
Before I step down I hear the echoes of music teacher's melancholy voice
And I never thought a chalk could speak like a parrot.
'Hey! Master I watched your regrets and I want to tell you that some of your friends already stuck in a home for the elders.
Your favorite teacher was retired and she collects her last pension it seems.
But it's glad to see still you look as a student's charisma with your old haversack.
Please come another day after the refurbishment of the school
Then you could see the new students and teachers
And I promise to reserve a seat for my lonesome Master.'

* To Sandra Fowler in gratitude.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Car-washers

As I walk half a kilometer
To MIG Cricket Club for my gym
I see cars parked on either side
Of the wide street outside the compound-gates.

Time is 7 30 am, and the month is of Janus,
The Sun is rising, and it is chill
This year (2008) unusually in Mumbai
Never been so cold in forty-odd years.

Around many cars are water-patches
In irregular design on the asphalted road.
Every other car is being tended
By the car washers. They charge
From 200 to 400 rupees a month
Depending upon the society they serve.

The car washer gets the key from owner
To open up and clean including floor mats
Made free of yesterday's dust,

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poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
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The French Maid

She is cleaning again
feather duster in hand
Uniform tuxedo
fanning flourish feminine

She wears fishnets black
lacing satin spic 'n span
Skirting sleek stilettos
with delicate depurate diadem

She dusts lust for fuchsian
florid fine and flourishin’
Disinfecting drains unclogging
impeccable spotless sanitary she

We clean the floors doors walls
with window crevices uncovering
Reach revealing mirror ceiling
pristine sheen for floor board squeaking

[...] Read more

poem by Randy Resh
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Follow The Sea

'What is it makes a man follow the sea?
Ask me another!' says Billy Magee:
'Maybe it's liquor and maybe it's love -
Maybe it's likin' to be on the move -
Maybe the salt drop that runs in his blood
Won't let his killick lie snug in the mud:
What is it makes such poor idjits as me
Follow the sea -follow the sea? . . .
Jiggered if I know!' says Billy Magee.

'What is it keeps a chap rollin' around
All his life long from the Skaw to the Sound?
Samplin' the weathers from Hull to Rangoon -
Doldrums an' westerlies, Trade an' typhoon -
Hurricane, cyclone an' southerly buster -
In any old drogher as flies the Red Duster?
What is it makes a chap follow the sea -
Follow the sea - follow the sea -
Bust me if I know!' says Billy Magee.

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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Spirituality Finds Reflection In Science

Then, said the Master,
Be a plasma, not a duster,
All human beings are his writing pads,
For him within they are mad,

You need deliverance,
Of the mystery of mind and matter,
For your case
To come out from mess,
Growing subtle to subtler,

My Master wakens from nucleus -lotus,
Unfolding an atom of eight-orbited petals,
His voice liquid soothing phantom,
Blooms and impresses, “Think you are an atom”.

My dull wit began to roam,
And get barred to the explosion of atomic bomb,
His empathy’s rudder, interrupts, and voices,
I say of conscious Physics, and plasma physic’s traces,

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poem by Bazi alis Subrata Ray
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Spirituality Finds Reflection In Science. by Ray Subrata

Then, said the Master,
Be a plasma, not a duster,
All human beings are his writing pads,
For him within they are mad,

You need deliverance,
Of the mystery of mind and matter,
For your case
To come out from mess,
Growing subtle to subtler,

My Master wakens from nucleus -lotus,
Unfolding an atom of eight-orbited petals,
His voice liquid soothing phantom,
Blooms and impresses, “Think you are an atom”.

My dull wit began to roam,
And get barred to the explosion of atomic bomb,
His empathy’s rudder, interrupts, and voices,
I say of conscious Physics, and plasma physic’s traces,

[...] Read more

poem by Ray Subrata Ray
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