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A World of Verse

Page 3

by ASMSG Authors

But remind the lady

  Not to pocket the money

  But instead to give it to someone

  In the street

  A five pound note

  is not a lot to us

  But to some souls

  it is the difference

  between no shelter and a bed

  To others it is the difference

  between life and death.

  ROLLERS

  Yes this sun is merciless for sure

  It's hot

  It's barren out here

  And behind me all you see is desert

  But beyond this brush

  And in my eyeline

  is the Pacific Ocean

  We surf out there

  Me?

  Yes of course

  But I've taken a break

  I've parked the wagon up

  to have a slash to be honest

  to get out of my swimsuit

  and into these jeans again

  And then, in my back pocket,

  is the list of all the orders

  the guys want me to bring back

  before sundown

  Yeah sure - we'll have a party

  We always do mate

  Feel free to join us

  Right now I'm also enjoying

  something else

  That silver path

  across the silver sea

  That's what I love the most

  It takes me right out there

  limitless

  endless

  and makes me realise

  I do not have to be fearful

  of anything

  not even infinity

  Right - jump in. Sure.

  And bring your mate too.

  You can help me carry back

  all the food and drink.

  I can see the guys are now

  doing the last of the great rollers

  for the day.

  They'll be hungry.

  I am too!

  And I now you guys are!!

  * * * * * * * * * *

  JAMES AMOATENG

  MEN NEVER GROW

  I

  The bride asked her mother,

  This question in her chamber,

  “Why do men get quarrelsome,

  After such effort to be winsome?”

  Mama sat with legs asunder,

  Over this question to ponder.

  “You know,” she said, “men never grow,

  But let your love out glow.

  They spend much time seeking treasures,

  Only to spend most on pleasures.”

  II

  The groom asking his father,

  Same of ladies in his chamber.

  Had Daddy searching his mind,

  For this puzzle a cause to find.

  Much effort he spent in his pause,

  Until he thought he had found a cause,

  “Cause,” he shrugged, “we men never grow,

  Only you must let love flow.

  Ladies grow at home to stay,

  We men always look elsewhere to play.”

  III

  So just maybe men never grow,

  But let your love out blow.

  They are just big babies,

  Who need their nannies.

  They seek pleasures,

  After getting treasures.

  They scream and shout,

  The rules they flout.

  But it is just a cry,

  If the world won’t try.

  IMPRISONED IN OUR HOMES

  I

  From the lovely courtyard,

  Of a fortress we call home,

  Our beautiful surroundings,

  Are obscured from view,

  By twenty feet walls,

  Crystallized at the top,

  With rows of barbed wire.

  II

  Like gazelles or impalas,

  Or the giraffe or a boar,

  Always on the watch,

  For a deadly predator,

  Is our stark reality,

  Of good guys in fear,

  Outside their own homes.

  III

  The bad guys rather free,

  Are lions on the hunt.

  Lurking stealthily in the dark,

  Knives and machetes wielding,

  Guns and bombs at the ready,

  Waiting for the chance,

  To spring on their prey.

  IV

  Why pretend we are safe,

  In a so called free world,

  Which is not really free?

  Our cherished liberties,

  Have long been surrendered,

  For a prison we call home,

  With wild dogs as our guards?

  * * * * * * * * * *

  KARENA MARIE

  With the wind in my hair

  I ride towards you

  I cannot wait to

  Talk to you

  And wonder if you

  Will hear me

  With the wind in my hair

  My tears dry

  On my face

  I miss you so much

  And wonder if you

  Can miss me too

  With the wind in my hair

  I turn off of the road

  A bitter-sweet journey

  I hate to do alone

  I cannot wait to

  Talk to you

  But wonder if you

  Are really here

  You were born

  A soldier

  And died an honourable

  Soldier’s death

  As I sit by your stone

  I cannot help but still care

  But always wonder

  If you are really here

  With the wind in my hair

  I mount for the journey home

  A lone rider I am now

  And I believe I

  Always will be

  You lived your life

  With honour

  And honour you

  I shall always do

  With the wind in my hair

  And tears falling

  Down my face

  Please know I shall

  Never forget

  Time moves me ahead

  But I wish to remain in the past

  When you would sweep

  My hair aside

  When the wind would blow

  My hair into my eyes

  * * * * * * * * * *

  LAURIE MILLER KAZMIERCZAK

  The Pick-up Artist

  First and foremost, survey the room.

  Strategize and memorize the participants, don’t assume

  That Ken there, looking dapper

  should be the first.

  Instead presume

  That the well known architects

  will moan and begroan, feel attacked

  when I ask that they scale back

  their designs. Restructure their hard work

  while I lavish my admiration all the while.

  And next is Barb, sporting her perfect smile.

  Now I notice Annie, she looks ragged.

  Her friend Samantha, off in a corner, sagged.

  Her archaic clothes,

  her arrogant pose

  She just can’t fit in, share the game.

  And Chubs! What a nickname

  for such a beautiful creature,

  slyly asleep, her most beguiling feature.

  Will there be tears? Will an argument arise?

  Or will my tact and aplomb overcome the cries?

  I can no longer just ‘sweep the room with a glance’-

  that old adage from Erma Bombeck, such nuance.

  I must pick and choose,

  legos, dolls, and shoes-

  The bane of a mother of four, my existence.

  3rd Thought

  You’re my first thought in the morning,

  But I’m a second thought in your heart.

  Barely a third thought I am in your
brain.

  You think you are such a hot shot.

  I’m a small spot in your thinking,

  But you’re my first thought in my heart.

  I rate a third thought as you pass me by.

  Hardly a good thought.

  So here’s to thoughts that should fill your mind, space, time, whole heart.

  I’m just a passing thought; I see that now.

  But I can tell you anyhow

  That thoughts like that should take a bow

  To all your mental faculties.

  Third thoughts can be most mysterious.

  Deep inside your head’s where I’ll be

  Waiting for the coming senses

  Hidden in the third-thought process.

  O thoughts that should fill your mind, space, time, whole heart.

  I guess I’ll wait till you are curious.

  But I take all your thoughts as serious,

  For now, don’t mind me.

  I’m a nudge in your third thought progress.

  To thoughts that should fill your mind, space, time, whole heart.

  LUCY PIREEL

  Empty Love

  A heart filled with dust and sand

  Dry and infertile

  Empty but hot

  Burning, yearning

  Love, the raging beast

  Destroyer and maker

  Hate, the loving companion

  hot like a burning heart

  Empty like the desert

 

  Filled with dust and sand

  Dry and incapable

  Creator and ravager

  No more

  Nothing left

  An empty shell

  Dry and infertile

  He is All

  Foe and saviour

  Sun and moon

  Master and slave

  She crooks her finger

  Devil and saint

  Flower and thorn

  Acid and honey

  She crooks her finger

  Void no more

  Universe filled

  He is all, yet nothing

  Fear

  goosebumps raise on skin

  unheard, never seen

  the nightmare awake

  terror stricken

  a mere thought

  in the mind

  all is real

  a voice

  a whisper

  a sigh

  no more

  silence

  Woe

  sun sets on clear skies

  Dark, starless, empty, cold nights

  mood plummets deeper

  * * * * * * * * * *

  MURIELLE CYR

  Harvest Talk

  My white-haired mother pulls out roots

  from her yellowed autumn garden

  dried-limp tomato stalks caught

  in prickly cucumber vines.

  She has weeded thru out the long

  demon summer

  watered

  night dryness and battled

  onslaught of whiteflies and gnats.

  Her harvest is now in jars

  bright-coloured fruit of her vigilance

  all in a row

  on a straight shelf

  browns greens yellows and red,

  pickled and dead.

  Conserving anything white never an option for her.

  I visit on Sunday afternoon

  talk of past harvests

  rain

  my children her jars.

  Show her photographs,

  blood seed of her garden.

  I feel the fibrous strength of her roots

  only while seeding my own,

  children all harvested

  shelved

  body lies fallow

  scarred womb shell

  life yellowed

  cracked furrowed autumn soil

  flesh loose gritty

  over tilled over fed,

  carbon backing shows thru

  fist-shaped blueness

  chalked under my eyes

  charcoal eraser smears

  blur contours of my face

  etching

  mother's oneness.

  Moon Planting

  Beneath Italian marble,

  landfill

  pressed tight

  into stolen lands,

  my mother sings

  her Mi'Kmaq song.

  Dollar-store plastic bouquets

  hover on both sides of her 18-inch wide garden:

  plantain leaves spread wide,

  foot of the white man,

  push thru sacred sage I replant

  each moon that calls the wild geese back.

  Tiny rez leased in Catholic bone yard

  Till someone decides to stake it out.

  For Marcel Giroux

  "A Montreal gas-station attendant was tied up, doused with gasoline and set on fire yesterday." The Montreal Gazette, April 2, 1989"

  Not the regular guy at the gas pumps,

  tonight Marcel lies prone in Hotel Dieu Hospital

  eyes and mouth torched shut

  by a thief for a moneybox.

  He waits mute

  for his charred skin to cement

  stiff and heavy like burnt steak,

  in the hospital baths

  it peels off in black chunks

  floats like dead fish in the Black Sea.

  New skin resurrects

  in tight purple furrows,

  the raped whiteness irreversible.

  Thief's silver pieces weren't enough,

  driven by urge to crucify

  to spike Marcel's delicate skin

  with the toxic flames darting

  from his twisted mind.

  He skipped away in triumph wiping

  Marcel's spit from his cheek.

  My child strapped in her car seat,

  distracted by all the monstrous tractor trailers

  blinding neons and skyscraper yellow arches

  drops her umbilical Teddy without wailing

  and for that mesmerized moment is transfixed

  by all the deafening motors and glitter of plastic lights,

  oblivious

  to the womb warmth of her friend.

  Was it so for the thief?

  That temporary distraction from humanity,

  did he not recognize his own

  brother's brown eyes,

  or that acrid smell of human fear

  as he struck the match?

  From the darkened back seat

  an impatient cry.

  My hand reaches back

  to nurture that fragile link.

  Salvage

  Head twisted backwards

  peering

  down

  inside

  this latest

  formless-shape

  shoving bones

  blood paths

  anything sticky

  aside

  keeping them as landmarks

  in case.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  OLLIE LAMBERT

  The Sun and Sea

  The sun wears his golden coat,

  And the sea her cloak of blue.

  They’re old and tired lovers,

  Who say silently ‘I love you’

  They only meet twice a day,

  At sunrise and sunset.

  But at that time they share a kiss,

  A kiss that cannot be kept.

  At night and in the day,

  The sun and sea must part.

  But still the sun’s rays shine,

  On the sea’s two sided heart.

  Though they are together,

  A couple beyond compare.

  Nighttime’s another story

  Because the sea, she has an affair.

  In the dark the moon shines brightly,

  And the sea, she has no choice.

  They kiss as the moon goes down,

  And they silently rejoice.
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  The sun unfortunately knows

  What happens when asleep.

  Still he stays devoted

  To the sea. He cannot weep.

  So this is the tale,

  Of the sea and the sun.

  The lovers who stay loyal.

  And will till the world is done.

  Music

  A magical mellifluous melody,

  Speaking through the air,

  A hollow space filled with warmth,

  Hot with musical flare.

  A single note with so much meaning,

  A power all on its own.

  But paired with another, three maybe four,

  All beauty will be made known.

  Instruments crafted by man,

  Vessels for this ineffable element.

  Domineering the seas of silence

  Turning cacophonies into sediment.

  Such soft serene sounds,

  That echo through the ages,

  An art that started verbally,

  Is now all written in pages.

  A manuscript of pulchritudinous dots.

  A song of capricious chords.

  All the tones of life,

  Well worth our applause.

  The one and only language,

  That everyone understands.

  A beacon of communication,

  lit by gods irreproachable hands.

  Some say it inspires people

  In everything they do.

  I like to think, it inspired life,

  love, and friendship too.

  Older than animals and older than plants,

  Yet still it soldiers on,

  An ode to music, shall I sing

  And this shall be my song.

  The beating heart of our society,

  A ringing bass for our ears.

  But the reliable thing about music,

  Is its been here, for years and years.

  Beloved

  The petals of a daisy,

  The fragility of their stems,

  Fail to amount to the delicacy,

  Of her eyes, those glistening gems.

  How hushed are the sounds

  That come echoing from her lips,

  And how soft a head of hair

  Running through my fingertips.

 

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