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Writer's cramp

Not only the muscles of the hand
his heart too got cramps
and the writing paper refused,
pen has hidden somewhere.
Candle it burned to the last stage
wax like his tears
Grand father clock stopped.
A cicada's chirp the resemblance of his heartbeat.
His fiancee has eloped
with his best friend
and there is no way
to express his misery.

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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As You Go Back To The Paths Of Your Dreams

as you go back to the paths of
your dreams
the grasses grow tall
on the bend
somewhere

i depart as breath
to my labyrinths of
regrets

if i find you
i must kiss you
if you like it still

if i don't i must
find back my hands
so i can still feel

my heart still beats
sounds

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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All Night the Lone Cicada

All night the lone cicada
Kept shrilling through the rain–
A voice of joy undaunted
By unforgotten pain.

Down from the wind-blown branches
Rang out the high refrain,
By tumult undisheartened,
By storm assailed in vain.

To looming vasts of mountain
And shadowy deeps of plain,
The ephemeral, brave defiance
Adventured not in vain.

Till to the faltering spirit
And to the weary brain,
From loss and fear and failure,
My joy returned again.

poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
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The real eyes

there are so many
ways to look at the world
as many ways
as there are eyes

just ask the bulky
eyed whirring cicada?
the slit eyed hawk eagle?
the moon eyed owl?

there are as many
ways to see the world
as there are invisible eyes

the old man you see
in your reccuring dream
the images that refuse
to leave the mind
even one goes blind

[...] Read more

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Always Going Back To A Place Of Origin

IT IS as house of stone
above a hill where the grasses
have learned to survive

The sun shines all day
The moon as usual comes only
when the cicada sings

As if
sorrow has a role to play
on the uncertainty of the place

I am a constant visitor there
I murmur words to the grass
and they all listen
I sit upon the rock
and it lets me warm my butt

The place is too unlikely for one
Like me

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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August Sun

The birth of August is upon us, as the fair haired sun rises in the sky
With songs of the cicada unwinding, the sand hill Cranes sail by
The heat is hoovering all around us, we feel heavy in it's grip
To break free from it's bonds, from it's clutches we must rip
Shade gives little relief, to this melting, bending soul
A river full of water, is not enough to quench this foe
Only darkness breaks the curse, that the day could not hide
Relief is but short...and that too must subside
For August is just arriving, her journey's just begun
It's only just beginning; her moment in the sun

poem by Rhonda Baker
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An Old Lesson From The Fields

Even as I watched the daylight how it sped
From noon till eve, and saw the light wind pass
In long pale waves across the flashing grass,
And heard through all my dreams, wherever led,
The thin cicada singing overhead,
I felt what joyance all this nature has,
And saw myself made clear as in a glass,
How that my soul was for the most part dead.

Oh, light, I cried, and, heaven, with all your blue,
Oh, earth, with all your sunny fruitfulness,
And ye, tall lillies, of the wind-vexed field,
What power and beauty life indeed might yield,
Could we but cast away its conscious stress,
Simple of heart, becoming even as you.

poem by Archibald Lampman
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Fire in the Heavens

Fire in the heavens, and fire along the hills,
and fire made solid in the flinty stone,
thick-mass'd or scatter'd pebble, fire that fills
the breathless hour that lives in fire alone.

This valley, long ago the patient bed
of floods that carv'd its antient amplitude,
in stillness of the Egyptian crypt outspread,
endures to drown in noon-day's tyrant mood.

Behind the veil of burning silence bound,
vast life's innumerous busy littleness
is hush'd in vague-conjectured blur of sound
that dulls the brain with slumbrous weight, unless

some dazzling puncture let the stridence throng
in the cicada's torture-point of song.

poem by Christopher John Brennan
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None is travelling

None is travelling
Here along this way but I,
This autumn evening.

The first day of the year:
thoughts come - and there is loneliness;
the autumn dusk is here.

An old pond
A frog jumps in -
Splash!

Lightening -
Heron's cry
Stabs the darkness

Clouds come from time to time -
and bring to men a chance to rest
from looking at the moon.

[...] Read more

poem by Matsuo Basho
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Summer Noon

Fire in the heavens, and fire along the hills,
and fire made solid in the flinty stone,
thick-massed or scattered pebble, fire that fills
the breathless hour that lives in fire alone.
This valley, long ago the patient bed
of floods that carved its antient amplitude,
in stillness of the Egyptian crypt outspread,
endures to drown in noon-day's tyrant mood.
Behind the veil of burning silence bound,
vast life's innumerous busy littleness
is hushed in vague-conjectured blur of sound
that dulls the brain with slumbrous weight, unless
some dazzling puncture let the stridence throng
in the cicada's torture-point of song.

poem by Christopher John Brennan
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