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Nature is Game for Life

Nature is game for life
no matter how small it is
how trivial each is.
it soon raises dust
to a creature, infuses its own thoughts
so that it livens up life.

look at the clouds in the sky,
sooner or later, the winds blow
them into shapes of birds, rabbits
and doggies....nature is game for life..
no matter how trivial they ar

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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No matter—now—Sweet

704

No matter—now—Sweet—
But when I'm Earl—
Won't you wish you'd spoken
To that dull Girl?

Trivial a Word—just—
Trivial—a Smile—
But won't you wish you'd spared one
When I'm Earl?

I shan't need it—then—
Crests—will do—
Eagles on my Buckles—
On my Belt—too—

Ermine—my familiar Gown—
Say—Sweet—then
Won't you wish you'd smiled—just—

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poem by Emily Dickinson
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We Bury Our Burdens

we carry a sack
full of everything
the trivial and not so trivial
to the others
which we sometimes
deem to be
important

we start cramping things
in a small pack
a pair of shoes, a plaque,
a bat, white polo shirt,
underwear, the certificates,
some poems even
a book about
romance with some
molds on the hard cover

where shall i bury all these things?
for i am moving to

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trivia Questions

Before you
there was nothing
and after
you, there will be nothing.
I've always told you, young lad,
how you remind me
of Lord Krishna.

As you bathe in the light of
nuclear holocaust,
your outstretched arms transform
into IV hangers.
The softest, most tranquil
valium
runs laps through
my nervous system.

Oh how the rays of misty light
look beautiful
on your expressionless forehead.

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poem by Carl A.I.
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Frivolous And Trivial Are Not The Same

Do you 'really' wish to know,
Just how frivolous these times we live...
Can be?
I am not out to prove this.
But it was you who stated with authority,
I was exaggerating!
And did so with sarcasism and negativity.

You have a TV I am sure?
Most people today have three.
Uplug your video games from one of them.
And tune into your news channels...
With a listening done to how your politicians,
Plan with your money...
To control your destiny.

After you've done that...
Tune into 'any' REALITY TV program.
These shows reflect,
With a bit of entertainment injected...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Understanding and Knowledge

Those who know don’t talk;
Those who talk don’t know;
Those who speak don’t write;
Those who write don’t speak.

Those who think don’t actions;
Those who actions don’t think;
Those who think don’t judge;
Those who judge don’t do.

Small understanding is no match for great understanding;
Small knowledge cannot understand great knowledge knows.
Great wisdom has great understanding;
Great knowledge has wise sayings.

Great knowledge and understanding is wide and vast;
Small knowledge and understanding is trivial and cramped.
Great speech blaze forth as a huge fire;
Small speech is empty and trivial.

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poem by Lawrence Hiung
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Salt Is.... Just Salty

There's so much in this world I cannot explain
The greatest scholars try in vain
Not because the knowledge is so loft
Not because we're growing soft
Nor because it's abstract
But in fact
Quite the opposite
Because some words there's just not a definition that can fit
The problem doesn't come from the objects
It's the simplicity that does perplex
Even the wisest of us all
Our logic does fall
Because it is so far below
How do we define the? What about slow
There's salt, and memory, and even know
What do we know if we don't know such words
People complain of jargon, taxonomic names for birds
But they can't even define what's simple
With that problem, man we got our hands full
We just cop out

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poem by David Knox
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Of locks and thieves! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Am truly enthralled by your heroic epic, Sir Pope
A bit of feedback, take in the right spirit, I hope.
Let me avoid in good faith to be circumspect.
The epic was inspired, I believe by true incident.

‘Belinda’s eyes flashed lightening on rape of lock
Filled with indignation, shrieked with shock’.
Honestly Sir am not here to just condemn or argue
I agree, a lot of fuss is made over trivial issues.

But rape of lock made of tantalising hair
Or one of shiny brass is called theft to be fair.
It’s good to laugh, kiss and (no pun intended) make up.
But Belinda’s woes were overflowing from the cup.

Baron for sure showed lack of breeding and taste
And thus lost his lady love, by acting in haste.
High or low, decency behoves everyone, even gentleman
Or he loses respect of the object of his ardour- woman.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 07: Porcelain

You see that porcelain ranged there in the window—
Platters and soup-plates done with pale pink rosebuds,
And tiny violets, and wreaths of ivy?
See how the pattern clings to the gleaming edges!
They're works of art—minutely seen and felt,
Each petal done devoutly. Is it failure
To spend your blood like this?

Study them . . . you will see there, in the porcelain,
If you stare hard enough, a sort of swimming
Of lights and shadows, ghosts within a crystal—
My brain unfolding! There you'll see me sitting
Day after day, close to a certain window,
Looking down, sometimes, to see the people . . .

Sometimes my wife comes there to speak to me . . .
Sometimes the grey cat waves his tail around me . . .
Goldfish swim in a bowl, glisten in sunlight,
Dilate to a gorgeous size, blow delicate bubbles,
Drowse among dark green weeds. On rainy days,

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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Not Sitting Here Trying To Flint Knap The Splinters Of A Mirror

Not sitting here trying to flint knap the splinters of a mirror
into Clovis points for pygmies to go hunting mammoths with.
Maybe if I can make them small enough to go on Twitter
or Facebook, two minutes with a hook in the imagination
and I might be able to make of a little stardust, a big constellation
of gaping fish dying of thirst beside a freshwater lake.
I might make a big splash, like Basho's frog,
for the lifespan of a haiku in prime time for nitwits.
I want to lay my vision out like a surrealistic starmap,
I don't want some lazy idiot laying its egg on my forehead
like a carnelian, or worse, a contact lens on my third eye
to cure my astigmatism by eating little peep holes in my vision.

I don't want a news feed for an intravenous muse
spoon feeding me whatever she wants me to hear
like a distant rumour of inspiration running like an opioid
at the end of a morphine drip with fangs.
Beauty's not an ephemerid, nor the truth
a media fashionista on a catwalk, or an anchor's desk,
that doesn't so much as illuminate and deepen

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poem by Patrick White
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