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Careful Surfer

I am a careful surfer
I'm watchful where I go;
I slide around in cyber-space
Gently - nice and slow.

I'm careful who I take on board
Along my cyber way;
Some I leave in lifeboats
To find their own sweet way.

But it's great this cyber-surfing,
I never ever dreamed
Of all this interaction with
Whomever up I teamed.

But careful is the watchword
Those bugs are on our tail;
Hold your vessel steady, as
In cyber-space you sail.

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poem by John Carter Brown
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Cartoon Physics, Part 1

Children under, say, ten, shouldn't know
that the universe is ever-expanding,
inexorably pushing into the vacuum, galaxies

swallowed by galaxies, whole

solar systems collapsing, all of it
acted out in silence. At ten we are still learning

the rules of cartoon animation,

that if a man draws a door on a rock
only he can pass through it.
Anyone else who tries

will crash into the rock. Ten-year-olds
should stick with burning houses, car wrecks,
ships going down -- earthbound, tangible

disasters, arenas

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poem by Nick Flynn
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Cascais Portugal

Cascais, Portugal.

First day of summer both winter and spring, full of rain; we are visiting her mother’s
resting place, a hole in a wall with a glass door that has a flimsy lock; easy to break in to
but who would want too? Her mother, born in Kinshasa, Congo, but upheaval forced
her to leave; now she rests in Cascais, Portugal far from her native land. The bible on
top of the coffin is full of tiny holes soon the book will be a pile of dust

While my wife pray I go for a walk, beautiful day and Cascais has a lovely bay. There are
sailboats and a few yachts in the bay one of them belongs to Prince Albert of Monaco,
he likes Portugal, the local paper enthuses. Indeed, aren’t we lucky? She joins me, says
“I don’t like boats and I don’t like the sea, my first husband took me on a sailing trip in
lake Lugarno, I was so sick they had to set me ashore.” We turn our back to the bay,
her mother and walk back to the car.

I remember a winter night in the North Atlantic Ocean, giant waves came crashing on
deck taking the railing and lifeboats away. Three ships sank that night with irrelevant
cargo onboard. No survivors. “Yes dear, the sea is a monster if it doesn’t takes your
body it takes your soul.”

poem by Oskar Hansen
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North Atlantic Sea

The North Atlantic Sea raged bitter cold
as a convoy of ships sailed swiftly as could be.
A wolf pack of submarines
were waiting somewhere
beneath the cold waters there.
Everyone scanned the icy waters
for some tell tale sign
as the merchant navy steamed on.
A destroyer was their bodyguard
in case trouble flared.
The sky’s clouds were grey
and filled with snow and followed them
into the eastern horizon.
Suddenly an enormous explosion
lit up the sky.
A U-boat had hit a target
and many brave men
were heading for a watery grave.
The destroyer raced towards the stricken ship
as another explosion rocked the sea.

[...] Read more

poem by David Harris
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Remembering Titanic 100 Years

The tale couldn't have been written better
Like a great novel that really happened
Uncertainness in unknowable future
The spirit of end left a mind opened

The magnificence of the ship to match
Scale only by the folly of people
Who drove in hell through the darkness then switch
More lives of unthinkable possible

A detailed timeline of the ship's few days
A timeline of the last night of their life
Blossoming romance tragedy always
Hits a unconscious dream with a luck wife

The juxtaposition of rich and poor
The gender roles played out into the door

March 30,2012 Hormish Garden of Toronto 10: 00-12: 00 am

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poem by Hormish Woo
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Burning World, Take Me

Burning world, take me, fold me in your flaming arms
and let me disappear into the unforgiving night.
Among these blind, here, in their black eggs,
eyeless birds who nest in their own ignorance,
I am the leper of light they drive out
with the stone of the moon, the wolf
with the mystic wound that will not heal until the last star
is born of the bleeding. Return me to the cold, brutal beauty
of your mineral wilderness, my bones on Venus
and my skull an abandoned planet circling the sun at midnight.
Let my eyes be the last of my tears to fall
and my blood be strewn like a gypsy scarf across the darkness.
Erase all trace of me as you do the path of the water-stars
who walk here among the dead like spirits from another world
intrigued by our passing. Pygmies in a circus,
cannibals and emperors all, leaping from thought to thought
rock to rock in the lifestream
to the applause of future funerals, o let them fade
like the idiot savants of last night’s dream, meaning nothing
but what they meant to themselves,

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poem by Patrick White
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All Day The Sun

All day the sun ripens the grape;
all night the wine ripens the cup,
a carrying forth into a carrying forth
of fruit into fruit, sun to grape,
grape to cup, cup to mouth,
life into death, you into me,
and everything drunk with transformation,
and everything crazed with flame and fury
as if the lips of the night were bleeding
as if there were eyes on the limbs of trees
that were nudged by the wind
to let go of their chandeliers
and the fire wanted a creek bed of its own
that could weep its way to the sea
and the wind shook the window
it wanted to be. And there are shoes
that were once the barges of men,
and roads that mistook themselves
for a journey, and hearts in the grass,
hardly distinguishable from other boundary stones

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poem by Patrick White
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Under This Black Umbrella

Under this black umbrella, the eyelid of the black rose
that eclipses the pearls and starfish that I feed it,
my second skin tattooed with a map of undiscovered constellations,
this black poppy of a sky ribbed like a tent
with the bones of bats and dragons, stalked on the spine
of an interrogative scorpion who reverses questions
like a fishing hook, my heart feathered for sacrifice
and pierced by its stinger for bait, though I never know
what god I’m dedicated to, what ghoul of the depths
rises to swallow me whole, I have risked my whole life
against the run of my luck, open in the house
under the shadow of its wing, following a funeral for years
that has lost its way to the grave. No need to tell you
that the mourners have turned to salt
and wandered away with the rain; no need
to tell you that I never knew the deceased
except as an elegant sorrow famous among clowns.
Under this black umbrella, this widow-veil,
this pygmy parachute, this mistaken sail of a lethal love triste
that jumps from attic windows, a deacon of descents,

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poem by Patrick White
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A C*******s - well, OK, seasonal - plea..

Art brings a smile and a message.
Thus the art of ‘Christmas’ cards…
(and I use the word loosely,
as its public use is now disapproved…)

A folded card: that’s four smallish sides to fill.
An appropriate seasonal smile on Page One;
Page Two requires nothing,
blank but room for something else to say
in lieu of that family catch-up print-out page
your children will have helped with; or maybe not..

Page Three offers a seasonal message – but
watch out these days – ‘you can’t use
THAT for THEM…’ oh of course, they’re,
what exactly? Crypto-Buddhists?
Lapsed Amish? Richard Dawkins and
his, er, dour or smiling family ?

Page Four – the great let-out

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poem by Michael Shepherd
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You Read My Poetry

You read my poetry
and you need a locus,
something to hang on to,
a familiar milieu, a focus,
right ascension and declination,
a starmap and astrolabe,
and the usual pictures painted
on the lens of the usual telescope.
If I had wanted you to follow me
I would have dropped breadcrumbs,
I would have spray-bombed the trees
an adolescent cadmium red
to show you where the road goes.
I may have been pulled like a weed
from the garden of Eden
and tossed to the wilder side of things,
a meteor among boundary stones,
but that doesn't mean my darkness is tar,
or all these stars are a kind of quicksand
you're sinking through like a sculptor

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poem by Patrick White
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