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Good Riddance to Imprudent Riddance

The yuletide breeze was gyrating, birds migrating
When a tourist flagrantly sniggered and took a swing
Wading through the acrimonious saturation of the horizon
In my soggy eyelids, the harbingers of time beckon
With the phosphorescent shadows of the gloaming
In crimson and in tangerine; a shrill riddance chafing,
That seeps through the notches of rustic persiennes
Summoning an effluent whiff of premature senescence
That clawed into my toppling skin with a vicarious sin
Cloyed in a lethargic nostalgia, just like the current scene;
I docilely surmised another pensive all-night episode
Haplessly cajoling with the ceiling and groaning floorboard
Accompanied by a treacherous bride; this anxious anticipation
That shoves me trampling to drain my arsenal in attrition
And inflect the affable arms of my caressing facilities
From a superfluous card in a paper-cut to infinite amities
That resides in a shrouded house of gambling cards
An elixir to the qualms of abandonment in haphazard
Suffice enough to whittle valiance from my bones
And bid riddance to riddance and sing sticks and stones.

poem by Norman Santos
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Kite Runner

A kite flutters over yonder
On a perfect Azure-draped skyline
Akin to the gossamer wings of a frolicking butterfly
Carving its path, flapping like a renegade contraption
Blending in to unforeseen heights
Plummeting in to somersaults,
Tumbling and dipping in a haphazard trajectory
Cavorting on the playground of the Gods
All this, strung to a lonely piece of cord
Masterminded by a giant in heart's labor
A lonely kite runner holding the precious reel
Standing on one foot, harvesting an Epicurean ataraxia
The poise of a flamingo, yet the heart of a lion
With a smirk on his juvenile visage, a yellow hibiscus in full bloom
Holding the fate of his flying wonder, in his bare open palms
A miracle of biblical proportions, earmarked with a Houdini signature
Where the swindle of life by a boundless viral villain......
Wispier than a hummingbird feather, was overcome,
To master the rampaging waves in the story of his life
To conquer a handicap of Everestian proportions

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poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Broken Heart

I spread my heart before you
As serenades at your threshold
Straining every vein of mine
Into a tune of melodious love
But …Alas
Glued are your eyes
To the wide blue yonder
Scanning through
The mists of phantasm
Into the Empyrean realm
For the mighty Cupid
To sight you
Get charmed by your allure
Leave his throne to
Alight in a flash
At your nigh
With redolent white lilies
Greet you in gallantry
Kneel before you
Kiss your hand and

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poem by Sathya Narayana
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Prosperous Country Is Our Ambition

Hope of new India is our ambition
We had dreamed it as inhibitions
Hoped to remain as golden sparrow
For better future and tomorrow

We have planned in haphazard ways
No one has right direction and emphatic says
All come with different opinion
Cast, color, language divide the regions

We want to assess what is happen on moon?
Where as we have no means to provide shed in noon
Millions sleep hungry and without roof
What else you need as proof?

Neither the sun has changed
Not the moon has escaped
They have remained our life and aspirations
There is not much needed for revelations

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Quatrains

One said: Thy life is thine to make or mar,
To flicker feebly, or to soar, a star;
It lies with thee -- the choice is thine, is thine,
To hit the ties or drive thy auto-car.

I answered Her: The choice is mine -- ah, no!
We all were made or marred long, long ago.
The parts are written; hear the super wail:
"Who is stage-managing this cosmic show?"

Blind fools of fate and slaves of circumstance,
Life is a fiddler, and we all must dance.
From gloom where mocks that will-o'-wisp, Free-will
I heard a voice cry: "Say, give us a chance."

Chance! Oh, there is no chance! The scene is set.
Up with the curtain! Man, the marionette,
Resumes his part. The gods will work the wires.
They've got it all down fine, you bet, you bet!

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poem by Robert William Service
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Seahorses.....

Once I had a real little seahorse encased in perspex
Laying starkly beside a tiny piece of seaweed (which was grey green)
Entombed forever
Laid majestically out for my lively enquiring five year old eyes to gaze upon
Guts severed

Gifted by well meaning adults at Christmas
In man made perspex a man made hole through the top
So i could wear him around my chubby neck
Whilst his dear little eyes just gazed out dead and dusted
Pitifully hollow
I wrestled with my conscience I could not wear him
He was not meant as a mere trinket
He was just a stolen life which haunted me
Yet i felt a duty
If he died for me, the least i could do was look
Appreciate uncomfortably
I mislaid him eventually
Was my relief.....

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poem by Karen Sinclair
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Disarry is the sister of perplexity

Time changes, the world changes,
Changes every thing from beauty to truth,
This is a curse, this is bliss
This is tumultuous, up is down, and down is up
Black is white, white black
Wrong is right, right is wrong
The systematic nature breaks down in miracles
The greatest miracle is of one having the anti—rules
The reason is our pride
But the anti- reason is crushing it
The more crushing is our unlimited ignorance!
The logic is our foundation
But too weak to hold the large building of anti-logic.
The scattered and haphazard things are found in a point
The strangeness of things is that the point is scattered and expanding
If expanding from the point is the rule and signifies life
Anti-rule, of course, the shrinking to the point and signifies the final death...
Annihilating everything from vanity to super intellect.
The historical knowledge is our capital
But too short to run the biggest business of baffling life

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poem by Abdul Wahab
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Room 5: The Concert Singer

I'm one of these haphazard chaps
Who sit in cafes drinking;
A most improper taste, perhaps,
Yet pleasant, to my thinking.
For, oh, I hate discord and strife;
I'm sadly, weakly human;
And I do think the best of life
Is wine and song and woman.

Now, there's that youngster on my right
Who thinks himself a poet,
And so he toils from morn to night
And vainly hopes to show it;
And there's that dauber on my left,
Within his chamber shrinking --
He looks like one of hope bereft;
He lives on air, I'm thinking.

But me, I love the things that are,
My heart is always merry;

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poem by Robert William Service
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The 'Poem' Project

Trying to convert poems, one format to another, plenty of headaches and bother.
A good friend helped with the issue, probably wished he hadn't agreed to.!
We weren't exactly the 'computer generation', as we tried to find a solution.
After all it couldn't be hard, so we thought, a lesson we'd be taught.! !
Discussing the problem, telephone and email, it became the 'holy grail'.

Formatting, copy, paste and scans, ideas, theories and part plans.!
Information read, advice requested, the 'poem' project we underestimated!
Errors, glitches, testing and trials, through scratching heads and 'gritted' smiles.
Bad and some good luck, we'd get a bit cocky, then again we got stuck!
Short lived success and celebrations, then frustrations and exasperations.,
One step forward, then three or four back, deep breaths, and a 'renewed attack'.!
Down loads, files, programmes, amid the the mental tantrums.
At our wits end, those computers sent us round the bend.
Those silicon chip sods, laughed at us like demon 'gods'.
At our attempts to solve the issue, as frustrations grew!

Settings and defaults, oh memories of old 'nuts 'n' bolts'! !
Those days were long gone, back to deciphering the silicone,
Frowns and mental anguish, those digital rascals had a 'death wish'.

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poem by Guy Lipmore
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Uncle Bill

My Uncle Bill! My Uncle Bill!
How doth my heart with anguish thrill!
For he, our chief, our Robin Hood,
Has gone to jail for stealing wood!
With tears and sobs my voice I raise
To celebrate my uncle's praise;
With all my strength, with all my skill,
I'll sing the song of Uncle Bill."
Convivial to the last degree,
An open-hearted sportsman he.
Did midnight howls our slumbers rob,
We said, "It's uncle 'on the job'."
When sounds of fight rang sharply out,
Then Bill was bound to be about,
The foremost figure in "the scrap",
A terror to the local "trap".
To drink, or fight, or maim, or kill,
Came all alike to Uncle Bill.
And when he faced the music's squeak
At Central Court before the beak,

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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