“A genius is a lofty kind indeed”

Posted by: Ngoc M Nguyen  /  Tags: Ngoc M. Nguyen

A genius is a lofty kind indeed:
he or she is a creature of the mind
that goes where breaths of inspiration lead
like mythic Muses on a Grecian wind;
some have the gift of poesy like Keats
and some the gift of music like Mozart:
one pens poems of lush, green fields where sheep bleats
and one writes melodies that move the heart.
The divine gift of genius is a tool
conferred by one’s high Muse to create art,
music and science to enlighten the fool
in ev’ry tribe of which we are a part.
But, if your genius be not in this rime,
then share the richer “genius” of your time.

–Ngoc Nguyen



“Like Frankenstein, I, too, am loathed to death”

Posted by: Ngoc M Nguyen  /  Tags: Ngoc M. Nguyen

Like Frankenstein, I, too, am loathed to death;
I walk this earth devoid of friend and hearth,–
devoid of joy from the time of my birth
and from the first draw of my infant’s breath.
An outcast and a pariah among
the friended, I exist without the mirth
and glee of those born of happier worth,
esteem and prize,–O would that I belong!
Still, I am loved of my dear family
and most loved friends, my books, and by my God
and e’en by my most oft-read poetry.
These things I cherish, honor and must laud
with gratitude and thanks religiously
and be content as worms in a blesséd sod.

–Ngoc Nguyen



”When bipolar I sometimes feel like God”

Posted by: Ngoc M Nguyen  /  Tags: Ngoc M. Nguyen

When bipolar I sometimes feel like God,
like Superman or the world’s savior;
the rush from feeling like a demi-god
makes me believe I am a conqueror,
like another Alexander the Great.
Then I’m flung to the pits of Satan’s Hell
when my wild moods then suddenly abate
(and rapidly cycle) that I cannot tell
the bottomless, infinite lows apart
from the ecstatic, Olympian highs.
These shifts in mood, subtle at first, outsmart
me as my disquiet intensifies.
Most of my life is spent between these two
poles of the spectrum—if you only knew!

–Ngoc Nguyen



Scottish Seasons

Posted by: Elaine May Smith  /  Tags: autumn, elaine may smith, image, Scotland, Scottish,season, spring, summer, sunset, winter

Scottish Seasons

Spring Sunset

dawn zephyr

gambols in daffies’

saft heids


Summer Sunset

warm drizzle…

the teasin’ o’ sun



Autumn Sunset

gale force

strippin’ thistles doon

tae maces


Winter Sunset


in a skirlin’ sky:

The Bells!


© 2007 Elaine May Smith


Twinkle, Twinkle, Like a Diamond in the Sky

Posted by: Elaine May Smith  /  Tags: anniversary, diamond, elaine may smith, jubilee, Mensa,poem, poetry, sixty

Diamond Jubilee

Twinkle, Twinkle, Like a Diamond in the Sky

Twinkle, Diamond Jubilee,
Clustered Mensan family,
Rough cut, half-cut, princess too,
White and yellow, pink and blue,
Twinkle, cultured and so rare,
Finished playing Solitaire!
Twinkle, Curiosity,
All degrees of clarity,
Cool as ice, yet burning bright,
Firm of foot, yet dancing light,
Twinkle, Diamonds all around,
Jewels in the Mensa crown!

© 2006 – Elaine May Smith
Published in British Mensa Magazine – December 2006
This is my Winning entry in British Mensa’s Diamond Jubilee “Diamond Ditty” competition.
The challenge was to write a verse in exactly 60 words to celebrate Mensa’s 60 successful years: 1946-2006.
I chose to liken the Mensa members – “Mensans” with a high IQ – to diamonds. Allusions are made to the “Four Cs” of diamonds: Cut, Colour, Clarity and Carat.


I Walk Alone

Posted by: John Mossbacher  /  Comments: 2

Sing soft, sweet whisper in my ear,

While I traverse across this earth,

Chasing sunsets ever-distant.

Humming ancient melodies,

I soak my porous soul and cleanse my distracted mind,

Disheveled and in disarray.

With the pure, soothing sound of my footsteps,

And emptiness that accompanies all the time in the world to spend,

As I journey farther yon these social quagmires-

The living artifacts of superficial existence,

Or the artificial taste of dull conversational chatter…

Be mine forever, never-ending road,

With your glorious lack of voice, and eternal companionship.

So long as I have a breath left to inhale,

Quiet mystery…

The more I come to know you,

I find I’m only discovering myself.

Create my image as I seek refuge,

Within your boundless, unsheltered promise,

To never tell a lie, or try to protect me.

Against you, I stand with resiliency.

Without you, I will dissolve back into the circuit board,

And assume my predetermined route,

As a transient being, in transit.

Challenge me to exhaustion,

And taunt my inability to conquer you.

Lead me astray…

For only then will I find my purpose in life.

Drain me to a powerless state,

And remind me how harsh this world can be,

When no one is there to pull me back to my feet.

Dazzle me with unimaginable treasures,

And dare me to explore what is just beyond sight.

You are my greatest passion.

Please never stop whispering that soft song,

Into my open ear.


Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke Anya Jaenicke

Sparks of electrons straight aligned

They have a magnetic field to find

And detect a carbon composed nuclei acid base

To give intergalactic life a face

Symbols made from nature’s best

To decipher is the quest

A random kick and off they go

Calculations have told us so

From deep space into the orbit of a star

No one knows how long and how far

This tiny dust mice further went

When the beam of light was bent

In an accumulated action

From a friction to a fraction

In small vessels of blood they dive

They are the components of life.


Written by: Anja Jaenicke 2014


Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke Anya Jaenicke

I sit down on my sofa in this very late hour

to read a book of Schopenhauer.

I fall asleep and dream I’m dead

but this dream is strange and mad.

My beta waves are all visible and high

and I think the epic of death is a lie.

Very peculiar forms come to my mind

I wonder if I have been mostly blind.

While I watch how a giant chemist

Produces life on other planets.

I walk through a tunnel for a quarter of an hour

there I see the silhouette of Schopenhauer.

I ask him if I am gone or if I still exist

he answers ” My dear we are all on a playback list.

Cellular death starts in the first hours of our life

and in the end it cuts through dimensions like a sharp knife

to finally open a pre installed golden firewall

so mind waves can follow an ever extending call

to accelerate the energetic vehicle of heavens fire

because consciousness has the strong desire

to form manifestations in endless shapes.

And one possible form are intelligent apes

who sometimes sit at a very late hour

to read in the mind of old Schopenhauer

This self inflicted very careless action

has brought you into my reflection

And I surly will mention in my book

your overall pale and mortal look

So read about yourself my dear

Immortal mind does reappear.”


Written by: Anja Jaenicke 2013


Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke Anya Jaenicke

Listen to me I am the mind’s eye

I know about truth and I know about lie

Clearly I reflect my true inside out

Eliminating every sorrow and every doubt

I come from the source of light but I’m blind

And I work for the benefit of all mankind

Mine are the eyes of history and fame

I’m the mind’s  eye I don’t have a name

I set out on my journey from inside my walls

I often have stumbled over man’s faults

I am the root of all nature and beauty

And it is my primed cognitive duty

To grant you compassion love and insight

And make you see into the voiceless dark night

I’m an old ancestral current of conducted electricity

In the daylight’s amber enlightening felicity

I am the mind’s eye and all you ever thought to be

Is the immortal picture of the all seeing me.


Written by: Anja Jaenicke 2014

Errors of an urban mind

Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

There wasn’t a healing horse who lied,

There wasn’t a prairie in his heart

It wasn’t the prairie that he vied.

This coin- does it open that valve?

No! there is no coin, there is no valve.

There isn’t a glowing worm that burst,

Radioactive Sewage. There is no rhyme.

There wasn’t a fortuitous coin then tossed

There wasn’t a bet, there wasn’t a loss.

The claws of the warm ugly radioactive worm,

‘the’ is an error of thought, not of grammar.

‘Is’ is an error is an error.

This isn’t a thought-this is the thought.

Quick.Let’s play this game-

heads my blistered skin, tails my rotten heart.


Written by Mayank Makhija
Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2014.All rights reserved.



Posted by: John Mossbacher  /  Tags: dream, drowning, ocean

It feels so peaceful down here.

My view of the glimmering sun sinking further away as the earth catches me,

bringing me along for the ride as we circle around together…

It looks so different down here.

Different from the surface, unique from the air.

It is so quiet, so calm down here.

Relaxing, are the clicking sounds of echolocation…

the chase between predator and prey relation clashing…

That wonderful sound..

My body lifts up, the world pushes away.

Levitation enacts as I’m alleviated, relaxed.

Weightless for just a minute, perfectly balanced,

As the shimmering light fades.

I forgot I was told not to hold my breath waiting,

for dreams to come true today.



Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

The north star flickers
sky is torn by iron bushes
sand has refused to fly today


Written by Mayank Makhija
Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2014.All rights reserved.


Pablo Neruda syndrome

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

I invited Neruda to my
Ward but he refused
That night, I cried
He was resolute
I stole the fountain pen
Of a night-shift nurse
To write an entry
To my journal
Trying to steal
Neruda’s attention

When the nurse
Caught me, Neruda
Felt guilty and he
Opened the windows

If only I could run
Away with him but
I am tied, tired
Of eloping.

Anxiety is my shadow
I swallow a sparrow
There is a lump
On my throat

My journal is bleeding
I asked for a doctor
But he told me
I am just dreaming


First published in Luciferous



Mornings and Shadows

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril


When mornings are veiled with sadness
I ask that you whisper no song
Sell my tears in the hardware
Donate my blood to the crickets
Just leave the door of our bedroom
Slightly open where I could hear
The sun’s footsteps like a burglar
And remember not to water
The sunflowers on my windowpane
Just leave me alone with your shadow.

When sadness are veiled with mornings
Drop a hello to a marionette
Listen to the bleeding Stradivarius
As one would hear a sermon
Then walk with a living saint
In our living room and dance
Sculpt me a rainy season soon
The sawdust rippling in my bath tub
And I will forget the mornings
Forget that mornings have no shadows.


First published in The Siren



If words could touch you

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

If words could touch you
Let them caress you like a long lost lover
Weary from battle, the war of raw,
An encounter with the inevitable

If words could touch you
Let the syllables play within the core
As the troubadours take part in
The more solitude be tolerable
Be with the words
Words whose cradle within
Returns to the primitive.

If words could touch you
Let them be but do not
Every word is an enemy of action
Every action a friend to none.


First published in The Manila Times




Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

Let my hello catch you once more
A checkmate in our conversations
The blades of grass as high as the fence
Not yet mowed.

The river be a river
Envious of the pearls in your chest
The ones I gifted you
When we were riding a horse
The river weeping alone
Whispers a spring tune
To hide my hello

I know you listen to my hellos
Even if you are asleep
Dreaming of drowning from a river
Of obvious oblivion.

If my hello could salvage you
From the nightmares of maidenhood
Let my finger draw a hello
In the mirror on your bathroom


First published in The Manila Times



Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

Immaculate grey machinery

Its gears: red, violet, turquoise.

Things- blue blue blue blue blue blue – passing through-

Groans the machinery. Stutters, and howls.

Behold the blue revolution– the true revolution-

-Molotov cocktails in blue vests.

The machinery will die-

-and bow to the new blueness of the newness of the world.

Revolution- the true one- the blue one- NOW.

Immaculate grey machinery

Its gears: red, violet, blue, turquoise.


Written by Mayank Makhija
Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2013.All rights reserved.



Only in the bubbles

Posted by: mayankmakhija

In the in-betweens of ancient hallows

scorching, ugly land of harrowed sepals

I move so- like a cryptic hermit moves with the wind

like so- my limbs, tiny leaflets in oceanic gales

like so- like a parched, emaciated, full hermit

And thus I love you- only in the winds.


Frozen in tundra, like a blue umbrella in snow

Emerald sky of the emerald town

Everything green

I lay so- like a neonate on grassy knolls

like so- like a harmonica in a boy’s mouth

like so- like a foot of a prankish giant

and thus I love you- only when the giant laughs.


In the lobbies of lavish leered penthouses

Like a young man in his silver silk pajamas

Drapes of zinc and titanium

Popcorn couches unused

I gobble test tubes of newness

Like so- pieces of glass shatter

Like so- eyes give in to bubbles

And thus I love you- only in the bubbles.


Written by Mayank Makhija
Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2013.All rights reserved.



Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

Dewdrops on the brink of my eyes
From some leaves in my history
Branching out of my memory,
I shed off a river, I rise.


First published in Kalyani 1 “Victim” issue


Haiku 1

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

the wind combs
the hair of the tree,
dry leaves fall.



Diyona 1

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

I stripped off the stars tonight
Enwrapping the maiden moon,
Darkness is the sole witness.




Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: HeidiMaria

Holding my breath, waiting.
Breathe some.
On top
only some.

Holding my breath, waiting.
For what?
For who?

Gasp for air.
Keeping my breath, waiting.


Keeping my breath, waiting.
to exhale
– be safe
– be secure


Breathing in.
Breathing out
Breathing freely




Three Haikus

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

a petal is a rosy

cheek of a flower,


a stem is a lonely lighthouse

guiding the captain

to surrender to the waves.

the calendar is a sleepwalker

I heard its footsteps

on the stairs last night.


First published in Three Line Poetry 18


Dawn’s Reverie

Posted by: lemaman

Golden country morning,
on a backroad spin.
Then without a warning,
you’re in my head again.

Driving to our place,
a lakeside’s cool mist.
I’m caressing your soft face
and tasting your sweet kiss.

Now sunlight’s peaking through
the yellow-brown horizon.
I’ve got some work to do,
so I find it quite surprising

that I can’t stop this feeling
of you always on my mind.
It’s a love that’s so revealing,
I thought I’d never find.



Bon Voyage

Posted by: lemaman

in keeping with the sadness of loss…

tattered, yellow napkin
softly settles into the murky lake
as it absorbs it’s last spill
our names in gold, still legible

this ring, never fit, seldom worn
“I love you” etched innermost
I know you do, I just couldn’t say it much
now I can, but you don’t hear

it’s cold out, especially on the water
our favorite time, autumn’s change upon us
our old craft, tattered sail I told you I’d fix
before your birthday that never came

now why bother, It’s the final voyage
a muted splash as the ring follows
and I sit, shivering silently in the blue dusk
the cold urn between my knees

now raised, and poured
a cloud of dust, your earthly remnants
ashes to ashes to water to earth
our dreams unlived, dissolved like you

in the muddy waters we once loved
nothing left for me: no us, no time
I follow your lead, but not softly, not muted
a last gulp and it’s really not bad

Sinking, thinking, wishing
watching our boat bobbing beneath
silence is screaming, I gasp
I’m warmed as I see your smile.



Once upon a time.

Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: HeidiMaria

Once upon a time I believed I was a person.

– but I was just a child.


Once upon a time I believed I was a person.

– but I was just a teenager.


Then I grew up, and I was sure I was a person.

– but I was only a woman.


Then I gave birth to my children.

Now, I thought, I`m a person.

– but I was only a mum.


I grew wise and experienced

– but I only grew old.


Then I realized

I`ll never be a person in this world of human beings.

So I died. Then finally I became a person.



Blue planet excursion

Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke Anya Jaenicke

On a trip to blue planet island in the universal sea

I have become one possibility of the conscious me

While the ship is drifting through the infinite ocean

in a highly intrinsic but permanent motion

I copy the copy of  the copy of  copied material

like a screenplay of an endless TV serial

While traveling my ego strives for perfection

but the biological brain comprehends only a fraction

of all variations of the super conscious mind

and I sure want to remember but I go blind

Dreamlike floating from one horizon to the next

My image stays silent and completly perplexed


written by: Anja Jaenicke, Aug. 2012 


Little woman

Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

Little woman, in my veil,

Yearnings of my heart,

here, a kiss planted, of your mother’s lips,

On your forehead, enlightened, sweet.

Little woman, the curd on your forehead,

Is glued to my bloated eyes, lean and dark.

Lulled to sleep, my woman,

Like my own soul, you squirm

And lie still, unable to even quiver,

Away be the cold of heartless hearts.


The sunlight, pervasive,

In my verandah, parallel beams of hope and gloom

It pierces your eyes

And you rub them again,

Till you are blinded as I in this slippery world.


If you can grow, I will see you grow as me,

Stifled, unwanted, unbidden,

But if the ground must touch you in

Urgency of ethical sacrifices,

Just as every daughter, boulder on world’s heart,

I will let you go, and not shed a tear.

For buried quietly, breathless,

You will never be trodden on so, my little one,

As you will be trodden on alive

Where men of manly guises,

Are lords of each mother’s cries.


Written by Mayank Makhija

Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2012.All rights reserved.



Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: Heidi Maria, HeidiMaria

Forgive me my loneliness,
next to you.

Closed, shut down, longing.
Out of reach,
So close that it hurts.

Forgive me my undeserving love,
for you.
Obtained, controlled, restrained.

Me, and you.
Together, for ever.



The sunshinechild

Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: Heidi Maria, HeidiMaria

Like a bursting sunbeam she enters the room!
It`s like sodabubbles hits my nose
as this bundle of joy child explodes here love
into my life.
Here love, for life!




Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: Heidi Maria, HeidiMaria

Stranger, please hold my hand
I`m worried, I might be dying.
Stranger, hold my hand.



Inviseble naked

Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: Heidi Maria, HeidiMaria

Naked, I`m standing here.

Don`t meet their blind eyes.

Just watching their empty looks,

hear their thoughts

as they pounds into my head.

They can`t see me,

can`t hear me,

They doesn’t listen.



“A love poem”

Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: Heidi Maria, HeidiMaria

So intensely unsecure

Safe and terrifying

Suddenly familiar amongst strangers



The butterflyplace.

Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: Heidi Maria, HeidiMaria

My deepest painful me,
the source of transformation.
Where rosebuds burst
from longing
for you,
my life.




Posted by: HeidiMaria  /  Tags: Heidi Maria, HeidiMaria

Your look tears through

my inner wilderness,

moonlightblue cold

warming me,

awakens the landscape

beyond the dream



Gnothi Seauton

Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke, Anya Jaenicke

Matter flows in a movement of mind

in an endless free motion of waves

I am only a spark of feeble kind

enchained in the fate of all ultimate graves

In God’s eyes men are all equal indeed

but some Gods are more equal than others

Many desperate souls are in current need

but who cares for their suffering who bothers

Look at the letters above the door in Delphi

We are all flows in the movement of mind

Know thyself,  Gnothi Seauton,  please see!

Let’s all share and love and be kind!


written by: Anja Jaenicke June 28. 2012


Sleep Dear Daughter

Posted by: Mike August
Sleep dear daughter
So you will not weep
Someday I again
Will sing your songs
As I hold your head
To my heart
You will know
Never did we part

Kissing you ever
So softly on
On your flushed cheek
My breath
A light breeze
Brushing your ear
Will quietly blow away
Your fears.

From my
Long sleep
I promise you
My sweetest
I will awake
We each will print
“I love you”
On your smiling slate.


Mike August


Dylan Revisited

Posted by: Mike August
Hollyhocks peer through cinderblocks.
Nightdust coats rusting padlocks.

Wolverine waits, then races;
Caribou’s hoofbeats he outpaces.

Jokerman turns to nightingale’s tunes.
In the mist, distant calls of loons.

Mourning’s twins, stanchions of candied sins.
He marches between them, clad in snakeskins.

Gravid ghosts bearing yokeless eggs,
Freedom hollowed, truth’s tapestry frayed.

the cloak or sanctuary design,
All are forever sequentially entwined.


Mike August


Fir Tree

Posted by: JohannesJung

The place that I called home is doomed to death.

All those crouching bushes ravishing

My nurture, sucking up the healthy fluid.

Greedy fingers suffocate my stem

And greenish needles swiftly growing dark.

Nourishment is nevermore to reach

My deep and deeper running roots again.

Starving in hereditary wealth,

I’m thinking, asking, crying: sally forth!


But old trees do not move, the hope – forlorn;

Stuck! And weed desertifies my home.

And every little inch of my own soil:

Henceforth ruled by parasites and pest.

And whensoever cometh my last dance,

Death will find me perishing with pride.

My Legacy is buried deep for times,

Safe and sound in dark eternal earth.

My dying wish: rainwater for my mind.




The Ghost

Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke Anya Jaenicke

Vanished are the distant days gone by

and tomorrow is  still a delusional lie.

Inexhaustible seems the true source of desires

universal explosions in the brain pull the wires.

Changes in perspective make the integral mode

circumspection of reality’s fragments are a heavy load.

But determined intervals of this moment of breath

distinguish life’s ‘now’ from the ceasing death.

The attempt to mesure this variable fraction

gives our perception the sense of a sacred action.

Not able to drink this fundamental drop

we search for the final truth without a stop

and strive for the meaning of our existence

while it stays a spooky action at the distance.


written by :Anja Jaenicke March 24. 2012



Posted by: DAVIDQUINT  /  Tags: David PH Quint

comes like the rivers
bring rain.
And the waters that fall
feed blood
through my veins
I evaporate into cloud
waiting to rain
a gain.
Coming to change
like waterfalls
spring where they may
I land in time
my instrument a play
my rhyme each day
rearranging as I go along
my way.
And though some times
I fall like thunderstorms
updrafts are always
there to ride,
and if I go patiently
time will stand
as I rise
above the clouds
and ride along my will.



Quietly Proud

Posted by: Sumenour

Quietly Proud

Quietly proud, distant mountains
Guarding high desert plains
Eagles float in thermal fountains
Watching mans encroaching flames

The winds bring rain clouds rare
Restoring thirsting grassland bare
Clouds bleed into the calm blue sky
Sweet fresh air, then a haunting cry

Coyote moving through a canyon
Followed by a stealthy companion
Searching for the vulnerable lost
Once found, savage death the cost

Twilight shadows merge with night
Awakening life with gifted sight
Valleys echo with unknown sounds
That follow tested trodden grounds

Dawn breathes across the still horizon
As crimson sun sweeps the dark away
Enfolds the valley with light emblazon
Mountains still, guard another day.


Laurence David Sumner February 2012 ©


Not of this world

Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

I went down to the Piraeus

I watched the struggle of humanity

I sat down in a ditch and cried

but I couldn’t interfere I coudn’t connect

What a tragic hustle for pleasure and pride!

I played like an actor of life

but I stayed an observing stranger

estranged from my true self

while inside of me my dark side smiled.

I went down to the Piraeus

to learn affection and happiness

and I met the many fallen Gods

squeezed to death by ignorance

I dried my bleeding eyes

I rose from the dust of the street

and there I was on my quest.

I have been down to the Piraeus

and I was involved in this unreasonable slaughter

I was the dying baby in the slums of Calcutta

I was the whore in the streets of New York

I was the statesman in his Limousine

I was the magician performing his tricks

I have been defeated by ignorance

so I licked my wounds and returned to were I came from

to become the child of compassion and love

I have been so long before.


written by: Anja Jaenicke, Feb 1. 2012



Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

A circle’s circumference

roundness of all universal existence

comeback of the soul’s igniting force

newness through life’s never ending birth

free is the will to endure and pursue

to an unknown were and a mysterious who.

Am I so frightful and without the final esprit

because I’m not able to finally see

behind the horizon of this round-all about?

It is a giant sphere for crying out loud!


written by: Anja Jaenicke Jan 3. 2012


Black moon

Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

Black moon savage nights

societies of blindness

were is Nous ?

Crying earth

cities filled with overindulgence

everlasting ignorance

civilisations feeding from nature’s bliss

Black moon savage nights

political oportunism

blood leaking pipelines

God’s own blue planet

deprived of its true trasures

Who am I ?

dispersed from past and future

so desperately trying to hold this subjective moment of time

Who are we ?

Living creatures with the potential to destroy our self

in this objective moment of time.

Black moon savage nights

all embracing truth

existence in isolated regions of reality

and in endless dimensions.

We are happily playing a jig saw puzzle

and do not realize that we can’t find the first pieces.


written by: Anja Jaenicke  dec. 2011


The Untitled

Posted by: Jennifer Bochenek  /  Tags: Jennifer Bochenek

I find a beauty in the
Unopened rose, the
Unfinished weave, the
Unshed tears
Because I know that
I will be there to
Coax open the bloom, to
Tie off the threads, to
Catch the teardrops
And join in the deluge.
Can you see the beauty too?

What if there is glory in the
Ungiven heart, the
Unholden hand, the
Untried hero?
When it means that
The heart is free, that
The hand is willing, that
The hero yet lives
Brave and bold.
Do you know the glory too?

I know there is promise in the
Untitled poem, the
Unleavened bread, the
Unfallen rain
Since I know they will be
Completed in time, will be
Allowed to rise, will be
Caressing the earth
and renewing all it touches.
This I will promise you.




Posted by: Jack Orwant  /  Tags: jack orwant

My generation has been quite around
Surviving war and its piteous cost
The faith-breaking news of the Holocaust
Allied armies retaking tortured ground

Divulging memory, moan and stutter;
Courts of justice, but the sentences weak
Victims passed away, or too ill to speak
Children’s dollies fill a frozen gutter

Evermore we wonder as we wander
At lack of justice in a morbid world
The flag of equity is torn and furled
A theme mortality can ponder.

May collective hope evolve, in its place,
Sober rationales for a human race.


– Jack Orwant



Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

Shackleton’s endless march over unknown ice

a ship is not a flying device.

Salty waters of tenacious creativity

can’t stop entropy’s activity.

Re-framing a situation to help his friends

he had to give up a weakening senseless defense.

Shackleton’s endless march over unknown ice

a ship is not a flying device

To create new centers of energetic intuitions

he had to leave behind all security illusions.

The old ship was sinking

and lingering illness and death were stinking.

Shackleton’s endless march over unknown ice

the ship will be eaten by hungry  mice.

The domination of the old way is pre- designed

it was on him new ways to find.

Shackleton’s endless march over unknown ice

life’s changing currents are reflected twice.

Old ideas are finding death

new territory is a reborn breath.

Realities are forming pictures

made from past and future mixtures.

Shackleton’s endless march over unknown ice

the mind’s intentions are of limitless size.


written by: Anja Jaenicke  Nov.22 2011


The Unholy Mountain

Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

The unholy mountain of the unholy men;

Colossal, hairy and dreaded across the land.

Like ascetics they, as tall as hills and lakes, rest and speak of nothing not grand.

Sweet magnolia wanders into the trenches and the hills,

Enchanting the disenchanted flowers of fall,

She ,with a sweet winter blush, hops around in the knolls.

She expects nothing pretty at all…

And finds nothing so pretty in return,

Just some mammoth men that lay in the mammoth sun.

She watches the sun burn, hears the murmuring above sunlight’s din,

And men, lain huge in mounds and hills, they swing in tune of virtuous sin.

Her father, whiskery and white, disguises his premonitions under his slippery eyes,

He thinks of sweet magnolia often; and today his heart cries,

His misgivings urge him to follow sweet magnolia, but he is not so wise.

Sweet Magnolia, why be so unwary that you see them as your friends not foes,

Forward you march jauntily to meet your unbidden woes.


Like a leaden cloud of infernal nights, your worthless soul, slowly blights.

Anon, your father’s heart, today it shakes, magnolia’s steps he does await.

Oh Father, her feet are scoundrel, dark and dull, they take her to the devil’s lull.

But cowardice is nothing to cowards, I weep, I yell,

And you, indifferent, indelible, infirm, just wring your hands, and fancy her well.

Sweet Magnolia, she giggles and laughs and prays, to be like the mountain, holy and chaste.

And the unholy mountain in the unholy pit, it flounders about its own drunken wit.

Their teeth, carious, writhing, and sharp

Gnawing the full, pink lips of the demigods

Their faces serene, their forms in the fray,

In the splendor of their limbs, worlds decay.

And yet sweet magnolia ,oblivious,unwise,

Marches on piously to their godly disguise.


She dreams of mountain, and marches away,

And so pleases her mind with dreams today,

that she dreams again, to dreams she falls,

Her dreams malign, perfectly large and small.

And unholy men of the unholy mountain,

They, unfit, uncaring, unbound; just gloat in their lustful gall.

Her father, with fish so dear and cold, prostrates himself to the Gods of gold,

For the fish that guts do not forget, for the blade that makes its guts unfold.

And shameless, he waits for Gods to cry, for fish is too sweet to sicken and die,

And Gods shall save her, he thinks and swells,

My daughter Magnolia, she’s the picture of health,

the daughter of Gods of fish and wealth,

the blessing of sun that glares and melts.

And the unholy men of the unholy mountain,

They scoff at Gods, and daughters of welts.


I plead the Gods to cast their gold,

Into rings and ships and Godly molds,

To lead her astray, with spoils and jewels,

Or slit her throat with blades of ghouls,

But save her from the hands of those,

Who lay in mountain, misty and cruel,

The unholy men of unholy mountain,

They hear me implore like pauper’s fool.

The moment is close, to cry with joy,

The cliffs of mountain come to toy,

With Magnolia’s life, that I appall,

With curves of mountain, that rise and fall,

I pray her feet be harlot’s soul,

And catch a fall to die in folds.

But the unholy men of unholy mountain,

They nimbly make her walk, a stroll.


Sweet Magnolia’s father, he jumps with joy,

And sings of Gods of Gold and toys,

Sweet Magnolia, my daughter, the princess of world,

The queen of promised land, the story of scrolls.

The daughter of Gods of wealth and fish,

The wind of seas, the wholesome wish,

No man can harm her, says the coward’s need,

No man can harm her, no man indeed,

But men who lie in mountain of greed.

Oh my Lord what happy day,

When cowards breathe and daughters sway,

And I, the man of wisdom and will,

Mock the gods and curse the devil.

But Magnolia, enchanting and mild,

Walks away like a little angel child.

with greed that Gods could not desert,

with lust that harlots court inside,

and the unholy men of the unholy mountain,

they, lords of swines and Gods and men,

they heave their chests and beat their thighs.


And now you’ve reached the devil’s shore,

Oh Magnolia, you are sweet no more,

Your chest is fraught with greed to peak,

Your thighs are sanguine, eyes are bleak,

And yet, I kneel down on my knees of knave,

And worship you oh angel’s grace,

For holy cowards can miss their hearts,

and kill their fish and play their harps,

and sing their songs for Gods of Gold,

but cowardice is a sin so bold,

I heartily curse the devil’s womb,

And yet no Gods can save my soul.


Written by Mayank Makhija

Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2011.All rights reserved.


Ausgeträumt! / The dream is over! (hoping that someone can understand German)

Posted by: JohannesJung

Träume erscheinen
Und Träume vergehen,
Träume beweinen
Und Träume erflehen.

Auf Händen tragen
Sie unser Begehren,
Stell’n keine Fragen
Nach unserm Verzehren.

Mal sind sie ein Segen,
Mal leidige Not,
Mal bringen sie Leben,
Mal bringen sie Tod,

Entspringen dem Herzen
Und wachsen im Geist,
Wie brennende Kerzen
Von denen Du weißt:

Daß sie erhellen
Das Dunkel der Seele –
Lichterwellen –

Sie sind wie ein Tor
Zum Himmelreich.
Ein singender Chor,
Ein Grenzbereich.

„Leb’ Deine Träume“,
– Geflügelte Worte,
„Träume sind Schäume“
– Von der bitteren Sorte.

Sie zu erreichen:
Ein Ziel ohne Weg.
Verwirrende Zeichen,
Ein Privileg …

Um Leben und Alltag zu entfliehen,
Um die eigene Sehnsucht zu stillen,
Ein Stückchen vom Himmel ausgeliehen,
Träumen vom freien Willen.
Doch sie bedeuten so viel,
Beflügeln das Sein,
Phantasieren, – und sie sind:
Ein göttliches Spiel,
Ein lieblicher Wein,
Ein Glockenspiel im Wind.

Süß und herrlich und wunderbar,
So müssen Träume sein –
Doch leider auch so angreifbar
Und was bleibt bist Du allein.

Und wie ich so blick in mein leeres Herz
Und alles liegt in Scherben,
Erkenn’ ich plötzlich mit bitterem Schmerz:
Auch Träume können sterben.




Of The Universe

Posted by: Sumenour

I am of the Universe.
That is all I am.
All will be revealed in time.


Laurence David Sumner 2011 ©


The Darkness Gathered

Posted by: Sumenour


The Darkness Gathered

The darkness gathered,

Thrusting across the sky.

The earth’s silence answered,

Trembling with a sigh.

The gentle quiet,

Now torn and battered,

Fled North with speckled light,

Peace now shattered.

Leaving all below,

Humbled and bowed.

To embrace to-morrow,

Undaunted, still proud.

The tears tumbled down.

Flowing to those in need.

Protecting their magnificent seed.

One day to be a delicate crown.

Harbinger of unknown threats,

Slowing, fading anger.

Surpassed by freshening sunsets.

A spectrum giving closure.


Laurence David Sumner 2011 ©


Old Unborn Born

Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

Encumbrances floating lightly in a bubble,

Unborn answers, conforming to the world

before they are elicited.

Drivel about laws and morals

upheld in the satanic paper silk.

decreed unconditionally, selfishly.


Time is bound in the palpitating stiches of events,

independent of each other,

inductively glued into a frayed wad of flesh and blood

by our ignorance- casual causal rationalizations.


Words painfully sticking to their definitions

moaning for a lump of dry cold morphine.

Evasive chattering of poets and thinkers-

well understood, pondered over, and forgotten.

There is nothing new…

just new-fangled old unborn

beaten with scorching hammers to fit precisely.


Written by Mayank Makhija

Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2011.All rights reserved.


Autumn song

Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

My tears are tasting like the tide of a far away ocean

everything around me is in current motion.

three ravens sit in the tree

one of them is surly me


My mouth is dry like the leaves of late fall

sleep, sleep soul so you can hear the magic call.

Three ravens sit in the tree

one of them is surly me.


Cycles of dying synergy and resurrecting energy

the master’s seal, a treasure we can not see.

Three ravens sit in the tree

one of them is surly me.


Eons have gone by and here I stay

it is the deep darkness that makes me find my way.

Three ravens sit in the tree

one of them, my friend is me.


The guiding fire shines brighter at night

be open minded it is your own inner light.

The three ravens in the tree

two of them are you and me.


After I’ve been once more dying

I  will hear the ravens crying.

The three ravens that sit in the tree

they want me, they want me!


As the souls are softly shifting

my spirit feels light and newly uplifting.

Three ravens in the tree of hope

are sending out a lightning strobe.


I listen to my inner voice

and we become one without a noise.

The three ravens in the tree

they talk to me, they talk to me.


I slip through the tunnel, I slip through the light

the blood in my veins feel warm and alright.

Two ravens and me fly away into the fog

no time, no space, no measuring clock.


written by: Anja Jaenicke Oct. 22. 2011  


Schönheit im Regen / Beauty in the rain

Posted by: JohannesJung

Regen, der sanft hernieder fällt.

Weiche Tropfen, die meine Haut streicheln.

Leben, das mich umschwärmt, in seiner reinsten Form.

Regen, der die Sinne befreit und die Seele läutert.

Mein Herz wird gereinigt

Und ich werde beschenkt mit Poesie,

Während Sonnenstrahlen durch die Wolken brechen

Und Regentropfen wie Millionen Sterne leuchten lassen.

Ich bin nicht alleine

Und doch bricht mich die Melancholie.

Es ist das Herz, das mir schwer ist,

Obgleich Zärtlichkeiten vom Himmel fallen.

Es ist die Schönheit, an der ich so schwer trage

Und erdrückend legt sie sich auf mich nieder.

Denn mein Geist vermag sie kaum zu erfassen,

Keinesfalls jedoch, sie zu erreichen.

Und nun ist auch Regen in mir,

Doch vermögen meine Tropfen nicht, mir ein Lächeln zu entlocken.

Sie sind zärtlich und bitter und schmücken mein Antlitz mit einem falschen Glanz.

Doch gerade der Schmerz gebiert Schönheit.

Schönheit, die ich ebenso wenig fassen, doch die ich sehen und leben kann.

Schönheit sind sanfte Tränen auf der Haut,

Wie Morgentau, der von einem Rosenblatt perlt.

Schönheit sind zarte Bluttropfen,

Die geschmeidige Muster auf schneeweiße Haut malen –

Rote Blüten auf weißer Seide –

Bitter erkaufte Schönheit –

Wertvoll und unerreicht.

Von einer Größe, die Augen erblinden und Stimmen verstummen lässt –

Wertvoll und unerreicht.

Nicht von dieser Welt und nicht für diese Welt.

Sie brennt.

Eine giftige Blume,

So anmutig, so tödlich,

Verführend und beängstigend.

Schönheit verklärend, im Regen erwartend,

Der die lebensspendenden Schmerzen lindern soll.

Ein Spiel der Gegensätze, daß nur eine träumende Seele erkennen kann.

Ein liebendes Herz, das leuchtet

Und durch den Regen führt,

Letztlich den Schmerz,

Die geträumte Liebe

Und das Leben erfährt,

Um dann zu sterben und in Schönheit aufzuerstehen.


Johannes Jung (2000)


Needs Must Dictate

Posted by: Sumenour


Needs Must Dictate

Needs must dictate,

All decisions made.

Regardless of state,

Laws in past forbade.


Headstones sacred,

Words share memories.

Laid for living by dead.

Walk quiet, no ceremonies.


All souls present, waiting,

To join those already risen.

A path, reverence creating,

For buried in earthen prison.


Laurence David Sumner 2011

( C within circle)



Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

Listen. Stop. This is a sucking node in time.

Unaffected by pauses of conversations.

Inward flux of all things unsaid stifles you.

You say there is nothing to say at all.

And I believe you. There is nothing to say at all.

But the nothing is here.

It is hermetically sealed inside your larynx

Inside this green and white place of apple orchards.

You know not still, the jitters you feel in your talk.

You know not still, what drives you to say what you do.

And yet you do.

This is a sucking node, a moment, when a pigeon in Rome

entices you to say that you envy the great fortunes

of your childhood friend to his face.

This graph of lines, vertical, horizontal, concave

Must trace your words, when you admit that you love her.

Or you care about her, it doesn’t matter why.

This is a moment of strength, not weakness.

This is a moment of trust sheathed from the rest of the world

Not to compel you to say what you cannot, or do not know how to.

This is a moment, a gift from me , your home, that pigeon in Rome.

To reveal your senses, and be done with the pleasure of venting, letting go

Of the desirous skin, or soul, or grudges old, or confessions untold.


But let go of this moment young man, and it will not let you go.

It proliferates when it is not here.

And comes back again in passion, impulse, or urgency

This moment, is now rude, gross, and stark naked.

It is a suction-

outward flux of all things unsaid unhinges you

You say there is nothing to say at all.

And you are lying.

You know that you loathe his fortunes, not his ways.

You know that you love her being , not her face.

This moment is not a gift, it is your fate.

Those who are wise will let it go, and be quiet forever

In their childhood dreams- of a closed box, of an uncovered veil.

But those who are naive and simple

Give in to the suction

And open the gates of clarity in hatred and love alike.

They can have their own mind until they grow wise.


Written by Mayank Makhija

Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2011.All rights reserved.


I Wonder

Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

I sometimes wonder when it will all cease to be,

On a withered beach, in old grains of sand;

All wants in the corner of my palms,

They slip away, as they came to be.

I wonder when it will all cease to be.


When will I get to eat the fruits I sowed?

And be so free, on a beach-

To touch the waves and not come back.

Disappear in the world of cloying sweetness.

The promised land of wonders and smiles.

The balloon ride in a green lagoon.

In a candy store. In a drop of dew.


Mother, I wonder when it will all cease to be.

The city lights. The fragile world of twisted strings.

Strained hunger. Strained relationships.

Seeking the gold coins of neverland.

Seeking the love of ages.

Impatience. Patience. Wait.

The traffic lights of vagrants-

Semi-nude. Looking for wealth. Greedy pigs.

She cries on the window, my little girl.

And she wonders if I have a heart to spare.

I wonder when it will all cease to be.


The drag of smooth ashy air in my lungs.

Dark brown eyes. The flimsiness of emotions.

The flimsiness of senses.

a rational mind- to hate, to bear.

And the world, hungry, dusty, cobwebbed.

My love, she says I am never there.

And the slighted camera of carelessness.

It pans out and in. But nothing moves.

I try, mother, but nothing moves.


She sticks her head to the windowpane.

And watches the vagrants beg and choke.

She asks me if I have a heart to spare.

I take the air and collapse within.

I feel a heart but nothing moves.

I try, mother, to wonder still-

And I wonder when it will all cease to be.


Written by Mayank Makhija

Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2011.All rights reserved.


Trampled Leaves

Posted by: mayankmakhija  /  Tags: mayank makhija

Ah the trampled leaves of good men.

They walk not for pleasure, being or gain.

They walk for us.

Their leaves bespattered with charcoal blood.

Their leaves, withered, dry, fibre.

And so are their souls.

Walk away, good men. And tread on these succulent, supple, green leaves.

Your death, oh leaves, is ensued from the righteous path of these good men.

They will save your tree. They will keep it. They will grow it. Be merry.

And you will be crushed- be martyrs; then angels- of which no one knows.

You are the vindictive unselfish men sacrificed for else’s rejuvenation.

Like the wine you brewed for someone else’s lips.

Like the limbs you lost in the struggle of patriotism.

In the struggle of freedom that you shall never see.

You will burn with resentment.

And be withered, dry, fibre.

And the good men will trample on you.

For they, through their righteous paths, walk for us- The tree.

And you the leaves, dead, vindictive, limbless,

Shall be trodden on in the path of righteousness;

And you ,the leaves, expendable, unfruitful-

Shall never know your limbs, your mind, your glee.

And you ,the seekers of virtue and good men-

Shall never know freedom…the freedom not be.


Written by Mayank Makhija

Copyright©Mayank Makhija, 2011.All rights reserved.


Genius Blues

Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

Happiness a category of it’s own

achived by humen excellence

sperms of a seldom flower

overcomming the gravity of the whole world


God ever geometrizes!


From here nothing furthers

because nobody can see it

because nobody can touch it

because one must know it!


The good and the bad

so inditinguishable to most human beings

not capable of any devision.

The irrationality of the soul

is punishing the virtues of reason

as consiousness decays into

a paradoxical loop of absolute existence.


written by Anja Jaenicke 22. Nov. 2010



Posted by: PeterDRodgers  /  Comments: 1



High IQ, here today and gone tomorrow,

Why loneliness causes too much sorrow,

You exist in some parts of my brain

Too incomprehensible so I seem insane.


The reason Relativity was wrong, high IQ, Continue Reading →



Posted by: PeterDRodgers  /  Tags: bernoulli equation, conservation of energy, conservation of mass, euler equations, fluid mechanics, ideal gas law, laplace equations, mathematics., navier-stokes, Peter D Rodgers, physics



O, Darling, there’s no need to panic,

you expert in Fluid Mechanics.

To Africans, Europeans and Asians,

state the fabulous Bernoulli Equation.

Tell the truth that laziness in history

is due to Conservation of Energy.

Let them know obesity of a lass

results from Conservation of Mass.

When a party lacks impressive jokes,

crack the funny one called Navier-Stokes.

When a dignitary farts and farts more,

respond by reciting the Ideal Gas Law.

To inspire everybody to utter elation,

state Euler Equations and Laplace Equations.




Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke  /  Comments: 1

Janus head, past and future of human versatility

Quatrocento’s crown was the gift of felicity.

Mona Lisa’s unpredictable smile

and Duerer’s ‘Melancholia’ are enlightening the blackest bile.

The ‘Ode to joy’  Beethoven’s pain of Elysium

was captured in the prison of his def martyrdom.

Poe’s ‘nevermore’ predicting raven in flight

has the metaphysical power of  a dark foresight.

For the salvation of art and creativity

the shadow of the ‘spark of the gods’

is a certain kind of sadness and tragedy.

Nietzsche’s lonely pathos of the high intellect

is an unfortunate but common fact.

To submerge into the deep, dark, cognitive sea

is the Great Mind’s necessity.

By wandering through the  fog of this heavy veil

other dimensions become real,

they bring the clearness of thought and happiness

and sometimes  God’s igniting kiss.


written by : Anja Jaenicke Oct. 2. 2011



Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

Trumpets, horns,

the crowd pushes toward the marketplace,

shouting out in ecstatic enjoyment.

How come that I feel so sad?

Drums, exploding fireworks,

the crowd laughs in ecstatic enjoyment.

How come that I feel the tears pushing against my eyeballs?

I move away from the masses,  stomping boots

and I hear an imaginary voice proclaim:

“Wollt ihr den totalen Krieg?”

and I hear the crowd shouting out in ecstatic enjoyment:


I see my grandfather turning pale

in front of a plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce

and I hear him say:

“Today the crowd has voted for absolute hell!”


written by: Anja Jaenicke



Posted by: PeterDRodgers

Universe, you’re fatter and then thinner with weird inner

And I’m sick of you being too triumphant and too tragic,

So I’ll catch those meteors and comets hurtling past

As I use theoretical physics to comprehend fast.

Gravity of time-travelling mystics seems comedy

Where laughter hah-hah is the incessant human remedy

Needed and heeded by imperfections as God’s creations

Who want to experience whatever gives high elations.

Nothing’s more extremely bizarre than human perceptions,

But, oh no, I’m forgetting intellectual misconceptions

Where jumbled convolutions create great inspirations,

And most frolic around and around with swift gyrations.

Life is wonderful as we suffer baffling mysteries

And recite idiotic facts from calamitous histories.


………. © written by Australia’s Peter Donald Rodgers



Posted by: Anja  /  Tags: Anja Jaenicke

Reborn consciousness drops through the void as waves of matter,

while an intuitive vision of mind gets better.

Particles, like raindrops spread away from the point of impact

and real concepts of appearances ignite to become a common fact,

leaving in the center an erosion of decayed entropy,

together with the immortal complexity of Areté.

Escaping information in a steady flow of self reflective recognition,

convert  non-incarnated coherence into  an omnipresent ambition.

Structure’s self determined retroactive realities,

give  rise to endless verificative possibilities.


written by: Anja Jaenicke Sep. 20. 2011 


Of The Universe

Posted by: Sumenour


Of  The Universe

I am of the Universe.
That is all I am.
All will be revealed in time.


Laurence David Sumner 2011 ©


Si Vis De Astra

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

Quo vadis novum nostra astra?
Nascitur, non fit suo loco caelo
Totis viribus, nil sine numine
Multum in parvo veritas

Nostra astra ne cede malis pro patria
Meminisse jujabit a tergo nos
Mirabile astra non omnis moriar
Si jeunesse savait, O! in saecula!


Where are you going new bright stars?
Born, not made in its proper place in heaven
With all one’s might, nothing without divine will
Much in little truth

Bright stars yield not to misfortunes for country
Look back one day from behind yourself
Wonderful stars shall not wholly die
If youth knew, O! Forever!


Copyright 2011

Published in India

 The Filipino Dream

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

It is with Filipino pride
I keep my head up
to make me feel on top
and nothing to hide.

It is with Asian pride
I keep my chest out
to make me think south
and something West inside.

It is with a Poetess’ pride
I keep my spirits whole
to make my over-soul
and everything my sole guide.


16 May 2011



Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

I have never been to Rizal

But Rizal has been to me;

There are times when Noli

Cured me out of my cancer,

In my every bone fiber;

His lectures in Spain still

Rings in my eardrum

To make me one of his,

One of his daughters.


First published in Remembering Rizal, Voices from the Diaspora, 2011


Spirit Beckoning

Posted by: Sumenour  /  Comments: 1

Spirit Beckoning

Part I


Spirit beckoning.

Heart pleading.

Mind reasoning.

Eyes reflecting,

A broken soul.


Part II


Inner child frozen.

Locked away, long ago.

A darkening.

Waiting patiently,

Ready to be woken.


Part III


Love passed,

Chances lost.

Reunions, future?

Changed with age.

Façade decayed.


Part IV


Spirit beckoning.

Heart pleading.

Mind reasoning.

Eyes failing,

A broken soul.


Part V


See beyond what is.

A place accepting.

Hear the Spirit, Heart.

Slowing mending,

A broken soul.


Laurence David Sumner 2011 ©


Friday, 11th March 2011 at 05:46:23 UTC

Posted by: Sumenour


Friday, 11th March 2011 at 05:46:23 UTC

Earthquake, eight point nine.

Tsunami, devastation,

Japan, Earth moved forever.


(Since writing this Haiku, the earthquake magnitude  has been upgraded to nine point zero)

Laurence David Sumner 2011 ©


Burning Sun

Posted by: admin  /  Tags: Haakon Rian Ueland  /  Comments: 2

Burning sun on a brownscorched earth
Hanging wheat to fried to eat
Raise your head up towards the sky
Scream and shout, “I don’t want to die”

Marching soldiers on paddy fields
Pale, dead bodies with bloated feet
Raise your head up towards the sky
Scream it out, “I don’t wanna die”

Sunlit snow and green-blue ice
Cool, green meadows and fields of rice
Raise your head up towards the sky
Shout it out, “It’s a good day to die”

Don’t be callous, don’t be shy
Don’t ask anybody why
Live your life to the full extent
You don’t know what around the bend lie



Testing Empty Spirituality

Posted by: Sumenour  /  Tags: Laurence David Sumner


Testing Empty Spirituality

Sadness passes through me.

As a wind moving fiercely,

Swirling within my soul.

Testing empty spirituality.

The enemy of natural design.

Is it our own creativity?

Architecture abnormal.

Destroying the given order.

Serenity, peace, hope, and joy.

Whither before my eyes.

I have had faith that passed,

Before my weeping eyes.

It is our need to seek the truth?

Each will accept their own.

Religion fills a vacuum.

With promises contrived.

Cynicism has become the one.

Stands firm against the many.

They fight with beliefs,

Forged from stolen power.

Determined to show the way,

To everlasting life, peace.

Seen over the builders wall.

An ancient wall that crumbles.

So many ways to the divine.

Which one should be chosen.

Where will it all end,

No one truly knows.

I want to feel the joy united

With peace, hope, humility.

We are but a small part,

Of this wondrous design.

We strive for a better world.

A home that’s safe for all.

The terms are dictated,

By words they fail,

Changing, manipulated.

I must reopen the doors,

Leading to my soul.

And hope the sun will shine.

Filled with who I am .

We are not the one.

We do not know the one.

If there is but one.

Then we will know,

When all is said and done.


Laurence David Sumner 2011 ©


Who Are You?

Posted by: Sumenour  /  Tags: Laurence David Sumner


Who Are You?

Whose eyes do you see the through?

Those of the optimist.

For that there should be a queue,

But the earth turns with a twist.

Whose eyes do you see through?

Those of a pessimist.

Everyone gravitates to the view.

Unable, unwilling to resist.

Whose mind do you think through?

The popular thought of the day.

One of your choice, false or true,

Or influenced, so meet halfway.

Whose mind rules your world?

Those close enough to touch,

Or multimedia unfurled,

Laid before you, so much.

Whose voice do you speak through?

The forest, a babbling brook.

Words difficult to construe,

The city, a choir, a book.

Whose voice rules your life?

What others see, think, or say,

Causing harmony or strife.

Them or you, say yea or nay.


Laurence David Sumner 2010 ©



Posted by: lemaman

Darker days than the blackest nights.
Restless sleep as my mind fights
that constant hum of the ugly past.
How damned long will it’s siren last?

I’m on the upside of the valley of shame,
but finding my way out was not a fun game.
’cause I learned by fire that it hurts to touch
that part of me that hates life so much.

Yet once exposed, it’s power was lost,
and life again became worth the cost.
For there’s no price I’ve found on being around
when easily I could have been underground.

But each night I lay with that incessant tone.
What will it take to just leave me alone?
For I know  isolation is not a good place,
and the past not forgotten, but never again faced…



Musical Miracle

Posted by: Elaine May Smith  /  Tags: Advent, christmas, elaine may smith, Musical

Advent Calendar

Musical Miracle

By Royal Command on the Opening Night,
Came the Christmas debut of the world’s Leading Light,
And though, at that time, the cast numbered few,
They knew in their hearts they’d been given their cue,
And down through the ages their story has passed,
Ensuring each Christmas is never the last!

Lights! Music! Action! The Advent Calendar directed,
Let the Narrator have peace to share the joy of His son’s birth,
Ignore the scorn of critics, for we have been selected,
To celebrate the longest-running musical on Earth!

The audience come and go with their reviews,
And all of them bringing the buzz of Good News,
They join with the players to each lend a heart,
In the teaching of others to each play a part,
In the ultimate uplifting warm winter’s tale,
A musical miracle on a world scale!


Now the Star in the East is the spotlight once more,
On a stage set with tinsel and presents galore,
Our cast is of millions and grows every year,
Our message of love and hope rings loud and clear,
We all know the script and we all know the score,
Let us lift up our voice in a Christmas “Encore!”



Copyright 2010 – Elaine May Smith


Rising on a Rumour

Posted by: Sumenour  /  Tags: Laurence David Sumner


Rising on a Rumour

The tension rising on a rumour.

Called to action to protect.

Seek out the truth from

Those who hold the key.

The righteous false

Will not prevail.

Their weapon power,

Begins to crumble and decay.

The protected view is strong.

It holds the trembling

In comfort given

by those not known.

Those shackled by the past

Embrace and nurture the letter.

The scales appear balanced

All remains the same.

Until those unflinching

Willing to accept contempt

Find the master key

Opening all the ways.

At last to change.

Combine the old with the new.

Perspective with clarity

Allowing wisdom for this day.

Knowledge unshackled

Brings forth those in fear

To join the strong

Restoring harmony.

The past re-examined

The present reclaimed

The future prepared

None shall remain the same.


Laurence David Sumner 2010 ©


Oh là là!

Posted by: Elaine May Smith  /  Tags: elaine may smith, tease, tongue, twist  /  Comments: 3

Light little licks
Leisurely licks
Linger la langue de l’amour là!
Long longing licks
Lip lunging licks
Lovers’ libido liqueur là!


© 2010 – Elaine May Smith


Nothing of Consequence Part X

Posted by: Sumenour  /  Tags: Laurence David Sumner


Laughing, Falling,


I fell over laughing

off the edge of the world.

The Earth is round, your mumbling.

So what, I’m out there, hurled.

That is, into space,

Spreading    w    o    r    d    s.

Laughing not heard, but in boldface.

With my last breath, upwards and onwards.

At the speed of humour I sped

To a world thats not that far.

I think it’s in my head.

Oh no, I fell out of bed.


Laurence David Sumner 2010 ©



Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril  /  Comments: 2

I have seen him…
Snatching the amphorae of wine
overflowing like a bitter harbinger
Of joy in this soul of mine…
I melted, I pelted with the rain
as verses of paeans knock
passion out the depths
beyond the bounds of the universe…



SUNSET is Death

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril

Alas! The dying sun in throne

Slides down toward the horizon

Like the slumber of a baby,

At its cradle, the newborn’s glee.

For death is a rebirth today;

Carpe Diem! This is the day!

Where ev’ry setting of the sun,

A star is born, the light is gone

From a distance, a tolling bell

Almost bitter curses into hell

While the moon, child of sun’s death,

In Paradise lost, still regret….



If I could only stop the downpour of hourglass…

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril  /  Comments: 2

If I could only stop the downpour of hourglass…

His voice echoed as the cold droplets of mist
Streamed deep into the core of being

As he turned back and stepped away
Crystalline beads of rain broke into despair

I pelted, I melted. Knelt…with the rain
Falling against the faint impulses of twilight

He is gone, with the burst of drizzle
From the starry nightfall of bitter dreams

He is gone, with the violet crocuses
Entwining around the harmony of his neck

He is gone, with the old tomorrows
Of sweet lightness gleaming upwards

He is gone, and now he left me with nothing
For the honeyed nectar of Aphrodite

If I could only stop the downpour of his time…


Copyright 2011

First published in Maganda Magazine 24th issue, Anonymous


Sonnet to Silver

Posted by: April Mae Berza  /  Tags: April Mae M. Berza, Shakespril  /  Comments: 1

Musing out of the depths of the universe,
Thousands of shining gems adorned the sky
That let nightingales serenade with verse
Of Aeolian tongue with feathers to fly;
Up in the cradle of sweet memento
Like the spring of youthful rosebuds and dills,
Still innocent and sweet so as to grow
At the foot of majestic purple hills;
Tender as songs only at Paradise
Chanted for the dancing jewels gleaming,
On golden streams, at the wake of sunrise;
Thou’rt far beyond the beauty surpassing
For as I gaze the starlight in thy core,
Thy primeval grace sparkle evermore…



Taking a Risk

Posted by: Sumenour  /  Tags: Laurence David Sumner  /  Comments: 2

Taking a Risk

A risk that’s hard to take,

Sharing thoughts, true or fake.

Is it arrogance or heartache

To publish , be prepared to forsake.

Your right to the meaning you intend.

Words once shared, comments may offend.

Be prepared to explain or defend.

Or no response, just transcend.

Our creative nature, demands artistic expression.

It’s one way of decompression.

Fear of failure can cause repression.

Depression often leads to confession.

Abstract poems allow disguise.

Then the reader may surmise

Is it just a guise?

To take offense might be unwise.

Or there is no comment, are we neglected?

Perhaps it’s better than being dissected.

Interpretation should be expected.

We hope that we are not rejected.

Perhaps we don’t care what others think.

Our armour intact, without a chink.

Though we don’t want group-think.

I’d rather take the risk, being part of the link.

Young or old, we have stories to be told.

Be Bold


Laurence David Sumner 2010 ©


Shadows in the Bulrushes

Posted by: Sumenour  /  Tags: Laurence David Sumner  /  Comments: 1


Shadows in the Bulrushes

Pass by without seeing,

The innocent held to my bosom.

Hide me, hide me.

Rustling in the wind,

whisper me, whisper me.

Swaying with the rippling water,

Dance me, dance me.

Tall in the shallows,

Reach me, reach me.

Know me when you pass again.

Seek me, seek me.


Laurence David Sumner 2010 ©

(Early poem, updated)

Inspired by an opera by Benjamin Britten,

The Turn of the Screw.” 1954.

Based on a novella by Henry James,

The Turn of the Screw”, 1898.


Sixth Sense

Posted by: Elaine May Smith  /  Tags: elaine may smith, poem. poetry, sense, sensual, sixth  / Comments: 3

My eyes are closed and I can’t see you
Hold me close before I fall
My lips can taste your tongue between them
Push me up against the wall!

All I hear is breathless breathing
Is that me or you?
It’s all the same now anyway
We’re neither one nor two…

Your teasing ‘round my ears
Is linked directly to my soul
Take me firm and make this last
We’ll roll and roll and roll…

Our scents are merging closer still
I’m gasping to inhale you
You’re all around me, on me, in me
One sense only to pursue…

Catch my rhythm on the beat
Keep it strong and steady
We’re melting in the moment… mmmmm
Don’t stop! I’m there! You ready?


© 2010 – Elaine May Smith

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