A love letter not published.
I'm old now, was old ten years ago, but less in years than at present, and not too old for warm
a embrace
She was related to my wife, which makes falling in love awkward, but infatuation falls like rain where it pleases
“The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain,” I wrote a love poem, not my metier, but as is said, nothing is as foolish as an old fool, or something like that.
A poem about the way she walked, her gracious body beautiful, the way she cast her head like a filly when angry, how could I be still like a mute when confronted
with so much desire?
My intent was pure I dictated what my heart told me
in a shivering moment, when fatally shot by the golden arrows and a heart that razed like an express to an early
death in spring, when Easter Lilies smile emitting
the intoxicating aroma of as yet unfulfilled love.
I gave the poem her to read, she became ashen-faced
Quickly, I said, I hope you like the poem it's written for
a poetry magazine that takes in love poems.
Oh, she said. Yes, a nice poem, but her hand trembled when she handed me the poem
did I see a flicker of disappointment that the poem was not meant for her.
German George Flegel
of whom you may have heard tell
Still life his passion&metier
exccedingly well therefrom did fare
A Friday of Gayness
Today, I drove to Faro town wanted a dinner of tunny steak
with onions at a café, I frequented fifteen years ago.
The place had gone upmarket so had the prices.
One waiter remembered me, but not my wife who took a dislike
of the poor man with failing eyesight, said he was effeminate.
The café used to have two parts one part was a wine bar
I mostly sat there when Oscar Wilde walked in if it was
not him in person was someone who looked like Oscar.
He remarked what he had observed this morning
at the railway station and could recite his poems beautifully.
I decided to become gay too to be frivolous and happy
But avoid the sex part, the thought of this made me shudder.
Alas, I had to drive my wife home.
I tried to translate some of Oscar´s remarks into Portuguese
she didn´t think it was clever or funny,
this, was my fault telling jokes is not my metier, so I was back
being my pedestrian self.
To understand
minimalist poetry,
one has to be:
competent wise,
clairvoyant,
or metier poet
minimalist... !
Sonnet is not an infidel depository,
how can one be infidel to singing!
how not to weep the weeping,
sans sonnet, which is antidote to gall ...
Sonnet is the song of troubadours
is the secret treasure of illusionists
not being metier only of doctors,
but cannot be tamed by anarchist.
The sonnet is the host fact of pain
chief guardian of poetic wisdom and
whoever does it, is one who does
Conserves its origin and its dynasty
to perform it well with pomp, nobility
as one who honors and cares for his love
The Typewriter
I didn`t drink much till I was thirty-four
Life was not getting any better my writing ambition
Was rejected by my family as a pipe dream
I drank –the refuge of the feeble - and dreamed
While fantasising lost house, wife, hare& hound
Ended up in a cot on mother`s loft.
A dusty type-writer in the corner took it out and cleaned
It with my scarf and wrote something behind an unpaid bill
I loved the ping it made at the end of its limit
Ping!
Wake up you drunken sloth I had found my Metier
Who wants to sit with losers in a smoky bar not me mate.
Writing has not brought financial reward but that
Was not what I was aiming at it was just to give thoughts
Wings so they could fly where the fancy took them.
A Friday of Gayness
Today I drove to Faro town I wanted a meal of tuna steak with
onions at the café I used to frequent fifteen years ago.
The place had gone upmarket and so had the prices one waiter
remembered me but not my wife and she took a dislike to him
said he was effeminate; the café has two parts, one with a wine bar
I mostly sat there. Oscar Wilde came in or someone looking as him,
he remarked of what he had observed during the day an intelligent
mind who could recite his own poems beautifully .
I decide to become gay too, to be frivolous and happy, but avoid
the sex thing the very thought made me shudder.
Alas, I had to drive my wife home I tried to translate some of
Oscar`s remarks into Portuguese, she didn`t think it was funny
But that was my fault telling jokes is not my metier so I was
back being my pedestrian self
Poetry Soup
Evolution comes with a rage
To make decisions as I age
Discover with the use of words
To stir my brain or atrophy
Then write a line of poetry
Feel more words within my soul
Then open up to different forms
Awaiting comments at a turn
To learn from others as I write
Even till the dead of night
To read my colleagues every day
And share my thoughts so I can say
I’ve found another metier
Why are you here at Poetry soup Contest
sponsored by Jerry T. Curtis
Ralph Sergi December 24, 2015
Where we muster and flock as assimilator,
To imbibe the noesis as accumulator,
O’er this institute majestically,
And to nutrify our thirst magnificently,
Where we summon our metier and furnish,
Skills with the optimistic savvy and burnish,
The alpha knowledge of our profession,
And to inwrought our mind with passion ,
Where we unitely ascertain and acquisition,
The basics of our instinctive disposition,
As to acquire mere about pallor,
Worth millions of dollar,
Where we arrive and depart,
And fill empty spaces or apart,
Of our noddle so this fit as fiddle,
To solve and alleviate the medical riddle(s)
This comes veridical to Aero Medical Institute,
An organisation of infinite magnitude,
Of ethics, courage, bravery and fortitude,
So I pen and pays tribute and gratitude.
Written By
M .Shahid H. Chouhdry
Where we muster and flock as assimilator,
To imbibe the noesis as accumulator,
O’er this institute majestically,
And to nutrify our thirst magnificently,
Where we summon our metier and furnish,
Skills with the optimistic savvy and burnish,
The alpha knowledge of our profession,
And to inwrought our mind with passion ,
Where we unitely ascertain and acquisition,
The basics of our instinctive disposition,
As to acquire mere about pallor,
Worth millions of dollar,
Where we arrive and depart,
And fill empty spaces or apart,
Of our noddle so this fit as fiddle,
To solve and alleviate the medical riddle,
This comes veridical to Aero Medical Institute,
An organisation of infinite magnitude,
Of ethics, courage, bravery and fortitude,
So I pen and pays tribute and gratitude.
They are nothing
if not taciturn--these sprit travelers.
They do not shock, or ridicule,
for they are single-minded in their quest
for timeless realms where magic dragons play
and roar for joy that cannot be contained--
unless they are ignored for brighter flames
that drown the seas around their mystic shore.
They are not much
for words or diadems of thought to sway
the psyche, win the day, or call to arms
a soldier, surfeited with war or from
a restive peace, Theirs is the steady breath
to leave one breathless, voiceless, more removed
from what a dawning day reveals than they
had ever been before, and more in tune
with universal song,
although they do not sing,
for their metier is listening. and that
is quite unspeakable--they do invite
us yet, to take their hand and come along.
The journey is not wearying , and rest
awaits the patient ones. Vacation at
the cosmic level is the prize received
unending and forever new,
~