| "I had many things to write, but I will not with ink and pen write unto thee..." |
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GIL SAENZ Autumn BreezeWhisper softly autumn breeze Through the rustle of the leaves, Tell me something if you please. My heart has grown weary With the passing of the years. So, autumn breeze, lift my spirits. Tell me some stories of my past With the laughter and the tears. Pure fresh light air, And the slight coolness That you possess. Autumn breeze bring me hope For a happier tomorrow With some love and tenderness. ©2007 GIL SAENZ |
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| Poetry endangers the established order in the soul." |
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(poetryrepairshop 99.01:005) JANET I. BUCK Harm's Way In short Haikus, my whittled limbs will teach you things with apoplectic certainty. Their crawlspace is so limited, they trim the fat off easy meat. Rattled brainwaves of a tear; tumble at the slightest trauma breaking concentration’s tail. I’ve earned a right to moodiness, but hate that state of mind so much, I’d rather live in busy fits of fast denial than wear solicitude of weak. Sumptuary laws of pride determine effort’s solemn shape. Struggle is one floating plight infecting every way I turn-- but I would kiss it French-tongue style in lieu of losing art of motion even in its limping curse. Harm’s way fashions repertoires of ugly shame, but also stacks thick courage bricks. I study hard discomfort of the universe; scratch firm trouble in my shorts. The sex of one successful step behind the rocks of ones collapsed. Try’s mortar is a muted shade but never moot. Its firm erection rules the earth. ©2007 JANET I. BUCK |
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Iranian born SHEEMA KALBASI is a human right activist, a poet, literary translator, and director of Dialogue of Nations Through Poetry in Translation, director of Poetry of Iranian Women, the poetry editor of Muse Apprentice Guild. SHEEMA KALBASI Nothing Nothing is all I am Nothing overloading nothing Closing the doors, Opening an extra into an empty space, Nothing ensues but a further war. The bombs, lights that blind and Damascus, Burning after Tehran. Sisters calling in despair, Brothers callous the arms of infidels. Nothing happens But children die, and journalists are filming for a deadline. Nothing comes after nothing but I, Kneel, cry for nothing, and still the no shepherd birds burn at flight. Nothing happens. I walk by the Central Park Next to nothing, and the no flight zone is Just nothing yet throat slides over throat, Bullets shut and blood drops. Here nothing happens But I write to keep nothing from overloading nothing. ©2007 SHEEMA KALBASI |
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