Quotes about crease, page 7
A Mother's Collection: Tissues, Bones, And Blood (Second)
Her second born
“Mother You Have A Baby Boy'
Seven pound of flesh lay beneath
her throbbing heart, teardrops
rained down on his light brown hair,
flowing past matching eyes, and
forming a salty pool in
the crease of his neck.
“Put him back in his warm home, only his
brother and me live in that cemetary room!
I swallowed and digested hope and
wrapped my tissues, bones, and blood
in tenderness and nursed the fruit of my womb.
Oh how delightful watching him suckle-feed warm
milk as my heartbeat lulled him to sleep!
“Big Mike” your childhood holds many memorable moments
and Klutziness is one:
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poem by Almedia Knight Oliver
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Old Town Types No27 - Sergeant Mat McGillicuddy
King of all the old town, gaoler, censor, too,
Bane of heavy sinners doing things they shouldn't do,
Terror of the cattle-duffers in the northern scrubs,
Keeping watch on criminals, cautioning the pubs
On those brief hours, in old days, when laws forbade their beer,
Looming forth on court-days, a Nemesis severe
Of a martinet and master in the art of keeping peace
Was Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
How the gleaming metal jingled, how the polished leather shone
When Sergeant Mat. McGillicuddy put his war-paint on:
Skin-tight corded riding breeches, spur and soldier-strap,
Cartridge case, revolver, and a smart, peaked cap,
A black 'imperial' that wagged beneath his stiff moustache
Authority personified - he cut a heavy dash
With his boots and buttons shining and his coat without a crease
Matthew Mark McGillicuddy, Sergeant of Police.
On race-days and show-days, when strangers sought the town,
The Sergeant was a stern man, and terrible his frown.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mable
As I eternalize her on a virgin white canvas
She gazes at me sans a murmur, in a vanilla hush
The cinnamon blends in the tea pot on the mahogany table
As I capture her stroke by stroke, my adoring Mable
She is a bundle of joy to mold, to behold
In her luscious peacock blue as the palms grip and hold
As she struts her hips on the homely cat walk
I stare at her naked curves with a gaze of a sea hawk
She opens her lips as silence partakes
She dazzles in the presence of lavender stakes
In her velvet hat flowing in the breeze
She adorns her blue sans a single crease
As the brush head kisses the canvas floor
She smells like an angel in a jasmine flow
As the nostrils waltz as they embrace the jasmine white
The night is still beginning, ominously bathing in moon light
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poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Blue Mountain Coffee
I take my seat at the Golden Grove
And watch the waitress, Xu,
She's sweet and pert, and her shortened skirt
Shows off a dimple or two;
She brings the menu, a pretty smile,
I get to the "Wo xiang yao...."
But she shakes her head, before I've said
What I want, would like, or how!
She points to the meal I didn't want,
I crease my ‘lao wai' brow,
"No no - Lan shan" is my one response,
"Lan shan kafei, niu nai..."
Do you have it? - this is a coffee shop?
All I want is a cup - that's wrong? '
She rolls her eyes, looks up to the skies
And mutters: ‘Wo bu dong! '
I check my book, have I overlooked
Some word, some phrase - a tone?
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poem by David Lewis Paget
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Under the Waterfall
'Whenever I plunge my arm, like this,
In a basin of water, I never miss
The sweet sharp sense of a fugitive day
Fetched back from its thickening shroud of gray.
Hence the only prime
And real love-rhyme
That I know by heart,
And that leaves no smart,
Is the purl of a little valley fall
About three spans wide and two spans tall
Over a table of solid rock,
And into a scoop of the self-same block;
The purl of a runlet that never ceases
In stir of kingdoms, in wars, in peaces;
With a hollow boiling voice it speaks
And has spoken since hills were turfless peaks.'
'And why gives this the only prime
Idea to you of a real love-rhyme?
And why does plunging your arm in a bowl
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poem by Thomas Hardy
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Clothes
Walking back to the office after lunch,
I saw Hans. “Mister Isham, Mister Isham,”
He called out in his hurry, “Herr Wegner needs you.
A woman waiting for a border pass
Took poison, she is dead, and the police
Are there to take the body.” In the hall,
The secretaries stood outside their doors
Silently waiting with Wegner. “Sir,” he said,
“It was her answer on the questionnaire,
A clerk for the Gestapo. So it was.”
Within the outer office, by the row
Of wooden chairs, one lying on its side,
On the discolored brown linoleum floor
Under a GI blanket was the lost
Unmoving shape; uncovered, from a fold,
A dirty foot half out of a dirty shoe,
Once white, heel bent, the sole worn through, the skin
Bruised red and calloused, uncut toenails curved
And veined like an old ivory. No one spoke.
Police stood at attention by a stretcher.
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poem by Edgar Bowers
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Suburbia
O man with a Position, prithee tell,
How is't you mould your sal'ried life so well;
Holding in lofty scorn that lowly mob
Of 'Blokes' who earn mere 'wages' at a 'job'.
Knights of Suburbia, whose only care
Is to be counted 'mid the 'naicest' there,
Teach me how I, some day, may learn to be
Clothed in drab Respectability.
I cannot muster due respect for those
Who wear the very nicest kind of clothes;
Nor does the Upper House sufficiently
Impress the dull, 'right-thinking' part o' me.
Fain would I garb my meekness in a coat
Whose very blackness struck a pious note,
And crease my pants, and aye, with tender care,
Arrange becomingly my plebian hair.
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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Indian Poets
Look before and beyond
Twin Towers
Weary webs waste vision
Work on mission.
Much blood has blown
Under the bridge of peace
Human bones are its pillars
Constructed by the body
It leads between hell and heaven
Poets will write a verse
On the architect of it
Wow with their rhyme and wit.
Unforgettable 1947
Guru Ram and Rahim
Moved in heaven
As their followers
Chopped into pieces
Scattered across borders
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poem by Dr. Shujaat Hussain
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Summer Of Mango Showers! ! ! !
Prolific Spring has thrown in her towel,
To tussel with torrid chaos in warm April,
Sun’s slow winter seduction has gone in vain,
In myriad sighs of lonely distress blazes in ruthless campaign,
Like a flame held too close to the heart,
Hoarding too many years in one brief season,
He unerringly darts,
Feverish Indian Summer dons a crest of heat & dust,
Over hot macadam that tape &measure, the breath of summer,
Land contours that crack crease & dry, a pattern of brine fits the paper sky,
Scorching days like time-worn love that tingles the heart & torches the sky,
Dusty flowers crumble, slipping through his golden fingers,
Two horizons hover, in a mirage of packed dirt in nervous squiggles,
The hurting fields furrowed, poke heaven in the underbelly,
Temples find no devotees glistening in communal sweat,
Like its turrets in filigree,
After the scorn of summer, days shall return with the resoluteness of winter.! ! ! !
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poem by Seema joglekar
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The Best of the Night to you, too, Bala...
So you took the covert road of the night
and stalked me
while I listened to Vivaldi up to midnight
At two when you were ready to go
you woke me stunned stark in your memory
your impishly entrancing laughter
your dark bright pupils beaming through the slits of your tightly drawn
lids
your ivory teeth basking in uncontrollable mirth
your blacker than black ear-antennae and higher than high civil-
servant brows
marking your dark-diamond worth
your patience
your more than necessary feeling for the less than fortunate friends
and relatives
stretched cummerbund tight round your caring nature
How you knew how to share your luck
Always a little put out for your beneficiaries' putout-ness
Worrying speechless night after night lest your luck run out
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poem by T. Wignesan
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