Oh sea of love!
How bitter the mem'ries I have!
This place reminisce the pain
Of not seeing my love again.
Your birds up high
Remind me of his goodbye.
Your water so deep
Makes me yearn and weep.
So let your breeze blow,
And dry the tears that flow.
Let your waves take away
The griefs and sorrows that stay.
Oh sea of love!
Erase the mem'ries I have!
Wash them out of the blue,
Take them away with you.
Copyright © Flora Mae Gudez
God help the foolish
Everywhere I go
The trees grow oh, so tall
The birds, they whistle cheerily
It’s all so wonderful
This world is filled with beauty
To feast the eyes upon
God help us all when all of this is gone.
Some folk worship money
They have no other view
Short sighted is the way they look
They never see what’s true
Destroying untold beauty
For the power of owning all
They are killing everything that’s beautiful
God help the foolish
They know not what they do
They bring down forests to the ground
God help those crazy few
Where will they get their oxygen
When all the trees are gone
God help them with their foolish carry on.
A world without the beauty
Of trees, and birds, and flowers
Would crush one’s soul so heavily
Why do they need this power?
Oh, what’s the good of money
If this is all there be?
This planet dies, as I watch helplessly.
Copyright © Peter Duggan
The poetry I write seems harsh
it seems sad and powerful,
sings songs and pslams to the sorrowful soul,
sung its song in the past of sorrow in all.
The poet's blood flows like champaign
on a wedding day of young couples in love.
Champaign that flows like rivers and streams
in the green plains of Mid West America,
and the poet writes about the land and the bird
that sings afar in a tall, old oak tree
thick at barch with experience and age.
The soul burns and cries out to be freed,
yet sits and reads poetry till the crack of dawn
in an old apartment house on the second floor,
and the rats run along the walls, and the cockroaches
in cerial boxes,
with shotgun in lape and cocked, ready to fire,
one in the chamber.
Whiskey in the lungs,
and whiskey on the ground,
in the hand
and upon the feet
of a sorrowful soul, filled with pain
and age, age full of tender love that never was discovered
by any naive soul.
One time the clock ticks and tocks,
echoes rings in an empty mind,
that echoes the sorrowed mind and tortures the pale soul.
One pull of the trigger,
and the sound of an explosion of faint silence
and a smile on a face of a dead man is shown in the light,
and watch the blood flow on the white pannel wall,
flowing like champaign on a beautiful wedding day.
Two weddings and a funeral...
Copyright © Chris Boskovski
The romantic poets were too early to postulate total atheism,
And so freshened up the church by aligning god with nature,
And I believe they had a preference for nature over god or theism,
Because they never posit him as social with high, tall stature.
Keats says that the nightingale exemplifies nature as active,
At bestowing upon all human beings meaning, sense and worth,
Since the bird’s song objectifies how nature truly is effective,
Fulfilled by happiness, and aimed at contentment and rebirth.
Nature triggers in us thoughts and words to settle and allure,
Offers us our language to dispel pain and find the cure,
And Keats contends that poetry, the credibility of its form,
Epitomises what nature proffers, a receptacle rather warm.
When you feel awkwardly suicidal with nowhere else to turn,
Nature lullabies you into your own sense, one you can rip and burn;
No controlled access freeways, no road signs for your safety,
Only soft, quiet communication that's never guilty of brevity.
Just as nature is beautiful, so Keats claims people as beautiful too,
As he uses the word beauty right in the middle of his nature exposé;
He’s referred to flora, the moon, the stars, the forest and what seems true,
Is that the song of the nightingale is for anyone, as this bird is not choosey.
He suggests that light or positivity in nature means movement,
That the soft breeze dispels the gloom and mossy pavement;
Quantum physics does reduce matter back down to interactive particles,
In which kinetic energy can be mistaken for minuscule, motionless articles.
His mentor is the nightingale as part of nature’s whole,
No minister or clergyman to advise him on his soul,
Stillness and bird song scent his poisoned air surrounding,
And it is all but for the silence of that beauteous music, astounding.
Nature does not irritate him when he surmises and introspects,
But upholds itself in majestic grandeur with unquestionable prospects;
It speaks about life, your life, your daily happenings and exotic dreams,
And forever exists for us when sense is just not within our means.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan