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Bullets And Kisses

My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten.

Heat seeking missile are only sent destroy.
Man less drones are deployed.
Books to a religion burned.
Peace will be destroyed.
It is impossible to avoid.
Unrest on steroids.

My bullets are kisses.
Let me send them to everyone of you.
Let them poison the very essence of your soul.
Let me claim another victim.
Let me dig another grave of the forgotten.
Memories dead, stale, and rotten.

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poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Hippodromania; Or, Whiffs From The Pipe

Part I
Visions in the Smoke
Rest, and be thankful! On the verge
Of the tall cliff rugged and grey,
But whose granite base the breakers surge,
And shiver their frothy spray,
Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath
That gathers and flits away,
With the surf beneath, and between my teeth
The stem of the 'ancient clay'.

With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes,
With its spell on my dreamy brain,
As I watch the circling vapours rise
From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies,
My vision becomes more plain,
Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds
Through the smoke-rack drifting and veering,
Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds
To a shadowy goal careering.

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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Part V: Ex Fumo Dare Lucem

['Twixt the Cup and the Lip]

Prologue

Calm and clear ! the bright day is declining,
The crystal expanse of the bay,
Like a shield of pure metal, lies shining
'Twixt headlands of purple and grey,
While the little waves leap in the sunset,
And strike with a miniature shock,
In sportive and infantine onset,
The base of the iron-stone rock.

Calm and clear ! the sea-breezes are laden
With a fragrance, a freshness, a power,
With a song like the song of a maiden,
With a scent like the scent of a flower ;
And a whisper, half-weird, half-prophetic,
Comes home with the sigh of the surf ;—
But I pause, for your fancies poetic

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poem by Adam Lindsay Gordon
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The caged lust

A stale wife is not a stale woman.
A stale husband is not a stale man.
Woman is a magnet to a stranger.
Man is a bullet to a stranger.
12.03.2009

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Washed Animals

After ablutions and breakfast, the cattle are raised
To be fine helpers in the family farm so to speak.
Turning the radio to a desirable station our keeping
Is alerted by the frowning of a gentlemanly farmer.
From the supermarket a produce is used for excellence
To remain in the morning of salutations and remembrance.
The cattle grow everyday to enlighten and disburden,
This pouring out of wine into the jug of the golden variety
Is stale action, stale thought and stale wording.
We as cleanliness must reach a proper income
By instigating and stating the sum of money.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Isaura

Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play?

'What play?' Why, this old play of winning hearts!

Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way:

'Tis all in vain—I know thee and thine arts.

Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made

A study of thee; and while I admire

The practised skill with which thy plans are laid,

I can but wonder if thou dost not tire.

Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth!

When overlong the season runs, I find

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Fresh Air

I

At the Poem Society a black-haired man stands up to say
“You make me sick with all your talk about restraint and mature talent!
Haven’t you ever looked out the window at a painting by Matisse,
Or did you always stay in hotels where there were too many spiders crawling on your visages?
Did you ever glance inside a bottle of sparkling pop,
Or see a citizen split in two by the lightning?
I am afraid you have never smiled at the hibernation
Of bear cubs except that you saw in it some deep relation
To human suffering and wishes, oh what a bunch of crackpots!”
The black-haired man sits down, and the others shoot arrows at him.
A blond man stands up and says,
“He is right! Why should we be organized to defend the kingdom
Of dullness? There are so many slimy people connected with poetry,
Too, and people who know nothing about it!
I am not recommending that poets like each other and organize to fight them,
But simply that lightning should strike them.”
Then the assembled mediocrities shot arrows at the blond-haired man.
The chairman stood up on the platform, oh he was physically ugly!

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poem by Kenneth Koch
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Three Women

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.

Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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The Nut-Brown Ale

THE nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!
The toast, the nutmeg, and the ginger
Will make a sighing man a singer.
Ale gives a buffet in the head,
But ginger under-props the brain;
When ale would strike a strong man dead
Then nutmeg tempers it again.
The nut-brown ale, the nut-brown ale,
Puts down all drink when it is stale!

poem by John Marston
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Heart Of Man

Enter the hearts of the men-in-charge,
Cosy feelings defy the oblique shapes;
My opposition wants my death and life,
May we enter the beliefs that endanger.
Willing to surrender, this woe inside
Sticks in the throat, stale and mostly stale.
Then dangers of a dragon are at best in the air,
Mighty winds cross the heads and hearts.
Many weep tonight on the sea-edges,
The coast has changed now, just changed.

poem by Naveed Akram
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