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A Bouquet Of Flower

A bouquet of flower
lying under the feet,
I saw one day, on the
the Romantic street.
A little girl was crying,
it was perhaps her.
it fell from her hand,
and smashed under the car!
I asked what she cried for-
told she bought, for mom's grave.
But, the bouquet was spoiled,
and she couldn't manage to save.
The red roses and fern,
made the heaven once
turned to suddenly to
a lump of red flesh by chance!
My eyes filled with
tear, as I perceived,
my own melted heart,
is lump being perished!

poem by Nilakshi Das
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Angel Fly

Angel is what i cal you
You watch over me every day and night
I pray to my angel, one day you will fly fly away
They took you from me, it spread, it hurt
i miss you every day my angel
you suffer no more they cut the lump the lump they call breast
it spread like wild fire, that they couldn't put out
My angel i wish you the best
i talk to you as if you were here
i hold back the tears of memory
times we shared and laughed as a family
dear angel, angel of mine i pray you
fly fly away across the bay to the angel of the sea
free, free of the breast cancer that took
away away from thee

R.I.P
Grandmother
1935-2007

poem by Jaime Rassbach
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Frank's Lump

Our Frank's got a lump on his head,
He says it's his brains coming out;
Which I don't believe for a moment,
It's a rumour he's putting about.

He'd have us believe he's a genius'
He really believes it I think;
I know he's no fool, but come on now,
He must think we're green and not pink.

Just because he went on to a grammar school,
And his O levels reach to the roof,
It could have been mostly good luck, 'cos
Let's face it no system's foolproof.

And anyway what's good about welding?
(His trade for a number of years)
He tells us he made fine machinery,
But it could have been railings or spears!

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poem by John Carter Brown
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A statesman: then and now

He stands on the podium
with his hat
in his hand
pressed against his chest

on the border with Angola
in his country
(as he still rules
over South West Africa)

and his bare head shines
under the bright Africa sun
where he himself was born

and Ratel armoured cars,
tanks, rocket launchers
and artillery drive past in convoys
back from Angola
to get a salute from him.

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poem by Gert Strydom
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When You Pick the Ticks Off Monkeys

Your love for monkeys,
Leaves a lump right here...
In my throat!

And I get so emotional,
When you swing from branch to tree branch...
On a vine,
Swinging...
Like one who has swung on a rope!

And when you pick ticks...
From another monkey's fur?
I get teary eyed...
Just watching what occurs!

When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
When you pick the ticks off monkeys,
You remove the itch.
When you pick the ticks off monkeys,

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Snake

snakes, scaly, slippery, a cold lump morbidly crawling
through the dark tunnel of memory
some creatures are born cursed
they are spat, and trumpled on
so that the nerves slithered when i actually
came face to face with one at two or three
the black six inch long they called two headed thing
propped my interest further
you dont get to see one often
i could not remember whether it had ended up
under somebody's stick or a parang
but thanks to the snake it helped me
hold onto a figment otherwise
would have been lost on the tail of time
an inert lump resting on cold yellow soil
guilty heavy of heaven and earth
all ready to take the cold and
inhumane blows of the world

once in while a little one would surface

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poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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The Legend Of Dream

A journalist asked me if I knew anything about the boy named Dream,
and how he became the greatest legend that the world had ever seen.
I was the mid-wife, so I’ve known Dream since the day he was born
he was delivered inside a bubble and the skin was whole and untorn.

This handsome boy had golden hair and the most beautiful blue eyes,
but he had a growth upon his shoulders and this made his mother cry.
She asked if it could be removed, so he would be accepted by everyone,
and I told her that it could, and by the age of seven it should be done.

However, after two weeks his mother took him to see a top Paediatrician
who had Dream x-rayed, he later told her of his diagnosis and decision.
Her son’s problem was that he had wings beneath his skin on his shoulders,
which should be allowed to form and grow naturally until he’s older.

And because he was so unique she should send him to a special school
where she could stay whilst he was taught and treated as an individual.
Dream’s mother accepted his proposal and they moved away from the city,
she wrote to me regularly and I visited them as a friend, and not out of pity.

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poem by Orlando Belo
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Darkness

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguished, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy Earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went—and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chilled into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires—and the thrones,
The palaces of crownéd kings—the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the World contained;
Forests were set on fire—but hour by hour
They fell and faded—and the crackling trunks

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poem by Byron (1816)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Paupers Parable

Gordon O'Gord and Michael De Ville
Lived next door to an old landfill,
Gordon was nine and a half, they say,
And Michael nine on the following day.

The boys were poor, they played about,
Their parents left them to holler and shout,
They played in the rubbish at Eden's Spill
And gathered their toys from the old landfill.

Gordon's mother was Mary O'Gord,
A lush in every sense of the word,
While Michael's mother, wherever she be,
Has gone to hell in a handbag... See!

One day, while foraging near and far
The boys uncovered an old bell jar,
A great big stopper was still in place,
The surface shone, you could see your face!

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poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Bishop Orders His Tomb

Vanity, saith the preacher, vanity!
Draw round my bed: is Anselm keeping back?
Nephews - sons mine . . . ah God, I know not! Well--
She, men would have to be your mother once,
Old Gandolf envied me, so fair she was!
What's done is done, and she is dead beside,
Dead long ago, and I am Bishop since,
And as she died so must we die ourselves,
And thence ye may perceive the world's a dream.
Life, how and what is it? As here I lie
In this state-chamber, dying by degrees,
Hours and long hours in the dead night, I ask
"Do I live, am I dead?" Peace, peace seems all.
Saint Praxed's ever was the church for peace;
And so, about this tomb of mine. I fought
With tooth and nail to save my niche, ye know:
--Old Gandolf cozened me, despite my care;
Shrewd was that snatch from out the corner South
He graced his carrion with, God curse the same!
Yet still my niche is not so cramped but thence

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poem by Robert Browning
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