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The Wok

Into the Wok I drive tonight
Down into the heart of the balmy city
As I drive a voice comes on the radio and says:
'The Wok has been crowned food capital of the North Coast'

Afterwards, I reflect on what the radio announcer said
I have just finished a meal of snapper and prawns
I resolve that the Wok should be crowned 'food paradise'
That should become law

poem by Scott Mcdonald
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Posers Pay.

They say the camera never lies.
But you may find to your surprise,
not only that they can but do.
Glamour shots are seldom true.
They have been air brushed probably
to change the image that you see
and alter the reality
to cater to sheer vanity.
If you’re prepared to pay his fee.
I’m sure the snapper will agree
To airbrush out each small defect
Which makes you look less than perfect.
Of course the camera does not lie
it just fulfils your fantasy.

Tuesday,15 June 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers

poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Nothing is more important than your health

To relieve my Arthritis joint pain
I started a rental boating in a river.
And the beautiful fish
around the boat,
They talk, sing & dance
As they're certain that I no carry baits?
They forced me to stay in the river
And confirmed that they could cure my nagging pain!
At last they said; 'Nothing is more important than your health.'

*[Still I remember the Yellow-tail Snapper's meaningful song;
'There are two types of pains,
One is physical and the other is mental?
Swimming is the best for the first
and meditation is ideal for the rest.']

nimal dunuhinga

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Carried Time Tide Currents Global Death List

radiation is raw spewing into the sea
off island of Honshū from number two
nuclear reactor at crippled Fukushima
nuclear power plant seeding sea currents
lethal death ray deadly spray radiation

radiation ripped glow fish soon no fish
dead sea hot zone death creeping raw
radiation still spewing seeping fear fish
cooked on your plate nice steaming but
what was it eating where swimming past

radiation survivors swimming is building
up in sea food chain levels concentrating
building in plankton for choice whale meat
building in snapper tuna fish for your dish
carried time tide currents global death list

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Woman with Girdle

Your midriff sags toward your knees;
your breast lie down in air,
their nipples as uninvolved
as warm starfish.
You stand in your elastic case,
still not giving up the new-born
and the old-born cycle.
Moving, you roll down the garment,
down that pink snapper and hoarder,
as your belly, soft as pudding,
slops into the empty space;
down, over the surgeon's careful mark,
down over hips, those head cushions
and mouth cushions,
slow motion like a rolling pin,
over crisp hairs, that amazing field
that hides your genius from your patron;
over thighs, thick as young pigs,
over knees like saucers,
over calves, polished as leather,

[...] Read more

poem by Anne Sexton
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My Cross

I wrote a poem to the moon
But no one noticed it;
Although I hoped that late or soon
Someone would praise a bit
Its purity and grace forlone,
Its beauty tulip-cool...
But as my poem died still-born,
I felt a fool.

I wrote a verse of vulgar trend
Spiced with an oath or two;
I tacked a snapper at the end
And called it Dan McGrew.
I spouted it to bar-room boys,
Full fifty years away;
Yet still with rude and ribald noise
It lives today.

'Tis bitter truth, but there you are-
That's how a name is made;

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poem by Robert William Service
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On patrol in the African bush

The LMG was getting heavy and hot
in my hands
and somehow the H-frame
became a part of my shoulders and back
and the stinging and unremitting African sun
was taking the last moisture out of us.

From nowhere some gnats appeared
and hang circling,
above our heads

Thirst was burning my throat
like scraping sandpaper,
but we could smell the river
and its cold water
looked inviting to us.

We were spread in an attack formation
and the squad was armed with
two LMG’s, a mortar

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poem by Gert Strydom
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The Keeper Of The Beast And Chestnut

Little fingers rattle the cage of the mysterious union of boy and dog
A dog filled with an empty stomach but full of ringworms
My new dog, whom I urged to pet, but was scolded - he might bite
My dog covered with filth like the chimney smoke of silt, released in the Industrial Age refineries
Whose sad bark translated to: I’m a water-dog, purify me! Purify my soul!
That water being an angel brushing off the graining tombstone of what once was
My dog, a polished broad pup, sloppily wet but content
Whose coat was itchy but clean from concentrated dish detergent
Who was wondering of his new surroundings,
and strange new noises to bark loudly at, in the night
Whose vet trips and vitamins pumped him to an enormous size
Whose runs in the yard became Indian midget trails
My dog, the dumb one, who would see-saw with me
Who would slide down the sliding board, like a rambunctious child, head first
Who loved to bite through things except my arm, shoved into his jaws, as a test he always passed
Whose claws were raptor sharp, and provided the dirt digging ability to escape into neighbor’s plots
My dog, who outweighed me by fifty pounds and made sure strangers knew this before they reached the front step
My dog, black haired, a thick virgin forest of midnight, streaming and shedding in the summer time
Whose lapping pink fleshed tongue in such a hot day, would yearn for his bucket of water
Whose chest muscles were defined like the promontory coastlines of North and South Carolina

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poem by Christopher J. Grasso
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Of all nacyons vnder the heuyn

[Skelton Laureate agaynste a comely Coystrowne that curyowsly chawntyd And curryshly cowntred, And madly in hys Musykkys mokkyshly made, Agaynste the .ix. Musys of polytyke Poems & Poettys matryculat.]

[Of all nacyons vnder the heuyn]

Of all nacyons vnder the heuyn.
These frantyke foolys I hate most of all.
For though they stumble in the synnys seuyn.
In peuyshnes yet they snapper and fall.
Which men the .viii. dedly syn call.
This peuysh proud thys prendergest.
When he is well yet can he not rest.

A swete suger-lofe & sowre bayardys-bun.
Be sumdele lyke in forme & shap.
The one for a duke the other for dun.
A maunchet for morell thereon to snap.
Hys hart is to hy to haue any hap.
But for in his gamvt carp that he can.
Lo Iak wold be a Ientylman

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poem by John Skelton
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racism- A Game Of Colour

I give you a set of colours
Red, blue, green, yellow, pink, brown, black and white
And you would say red and blue are complement complimentary,
and that contemporary brown and green are supplementary
And white is elementary,
and that black is voluntary
I would say its the adjective of racism
For racism is a game of colour
For racism is trauma of complexion

You argue black is obscurity,
white is dazzling and brown poverty
with yellow as footling
But i withstand your considerations
I would say they are the adjectives of racism
For racism is a game of colour
For racism is shame humanitarian

Tired! wanna defend?
Well, i give you some more parameters:

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poem by Amit Ray
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