my ostrich shell painted with
springbok and entangled daisies
blowing in icy wind
I drink yolk and albuminous
whisperings along rushing waves
we are soft dreams where
a fishing boat stood
buildings now deserted
¥
storehouse freshly painted in ochre
fishing nets drawn alleluia
dreams float with the sardines
drinking coke we celebrate catch
wind skips along Hout Bay shore
daisies clap wild petals yellow
shells smashed we eat boiled yolk
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the Heart of the Kingdom of Love
yes, the Absolute true Love from Above,
The North, the Constant of our existence,
The freedom after the honest penance,
Is a storehouse of passionate Delights;
Sweet Jesus-Son shine eradicating our Nights
Fragrant gardens of wondrous rest
Straight from the Heavenly Father's breast!
An old house I am led to -it is the symbol of
memories in cobwebs - like those of old lost love -
a storehouse for so many things buried in my mind.
I open up its creaking door to see what I might find.
Lovely notes come wafting down the stairs to me.
The memories buried find me.
A storehouse of diamonds
mired in human flotsam
be it on the sea, on land
or the alleys of Amsterdam
Each gem a rough jewel
yearning to be polished
The world heaves a sigh ~
as they fester impoverished
The river Life is nothing but a glib tunnel,
Except for the dazzling water, it is just a disastrous canal.
Except for any untamed misery,
It would only be an adversary.
Except for an acute pied piper,
This river would be an unalike well-giver.
The fragile memories spring up in the corridor,
In which nobody can hope for the undisclosed Advisor.
It is just a storehouse of harassment,
The well-giver is just a warped embodiment.
To bid in the farewell is only a colossal audacity,
To sacrifice your psyche is nothing but a callous mendacity.
The perpetual night is the name of an idiot,
Nothing can last for an everlasting period,
Nobody can live long without their deeds,
In the end, I want to confront my haughty demeanour and its mistreatments.
This river is only a four-digit number,
It does not wait for any illusory diver.
It does not cost more than a voyage,
It is no more than a mirage.
A hospitable host for the poets all over
Decorated with the festoons of poems
Disseminating the aroma of knowledge
With eye-feasting and insightful portraits
Serene and sweet music of audio clippings
Ragas of divergent genres with positive vibes
Free from the constraints of domestic walls
Cognizance of rich inputs with impartial judgements
Supportive dais for classic and novice poets
Sharing of different beliefs and traditions
A storehouse of passions and emotions
Bringing myriad thoughts across the world together
A lovely platform that has accommodated me
Poetry Soup – A new world of linguaphiles!
Place : 2nd
Jesu, Joy of man’s desiring,
thank you for Joy’s life preserving,
from the day she started breathing.
For this and your constant keeping,
you, her Lord this day we’re thanking.
Grant her health in all her living.
From your storehouse, pour out blessings.
Make her life a fountain flowing,
With the virtues you are giving.
May Joy, in your love abiding,
be a beacon brightly shining,
in a world where light is fading,
and souls of men in sin are dying.
Grant Joy grace in all her doing,
may she be a source of blessing,
to the souls each day she’s meeting
in the course of daily living.
With your Holy Spirit leading
may Joy’s faith be daily growing.
Grant her guidance in her choosing
May she be wise in her talking.
As she waits for your appearing,
Grant Joy strength in her proclaiming.
Then, when Jesus comes descending,
May she be with those ascending.
I sniff at my hands and oh!
Such scent, such ecstasy,
a memory presented to my nose.
But where do we find this block of adorable redness?
It was sold in every shop: lovable carbolic soap,
an aromatic compound, so ruddy, so redolent.
But this is now so rare; it merely
presents itself to my pleading mind -
a psyche that puts forth its arms,
a plea to a storehouse of valuable memory,
a whiff of an echo, an echo of an odour,
an odour that's been sent.
So who remembers, recalls a soap that's not
so round, bright pink, cream, blue or white,
that isn't sold in pretty-pretty paper?
We do so wish to sniff, sniff, sniff at an odour that's so old.
(3 Oct 2023)
If this was the last poetry contest
I would choose to call the tall waves
from the serotonin molecules
Neuron by neuron in the snaking path
cleft by cleft in a cerebral dance
the resplendent response
to the sounds of the tolling bell
through the laughing waves
from the ventricles
The soup knocked on the brains
a stirrer in the currents
It grew lilacs in the garden
softening the hardened soil
The soup sent cordial calls
to rivers dormant in a darkness
In the soup we knew the footfalls
With every sound the tall t-waves
All these from the charged magnet
the Poetrysoup contest
In case this was the last
we know we wouldn't fast
The treasure of the Poeyrysoup-glee
would never be under lock and key
Whenever fidgety in the pursuit
of an elusive thought or image
or of a glimpse of poetic stanzas
We would tap on the verdant doors of
the dear storehouse of the jewels
that never failed an avid reader
of all the forms of English poetry
After all a river is born to end
Leaving almost permanent poetry
in every bend
18 September 2023
Inspiration: Contest:
If this was the last Poetry Contest
hosted by Silent One
Custodian of nostalgic memories,
I cannot help but glance at it everyday,
for it holds in its fold nearly forgotten stories,
that in the distant past used to make my heart sway,
now awaiting the urge within my soul to recreate
and so relive the charm of mystical echoes,
that here and now I may again celebrate
highs of yesteryears as also the lows.
What at first grips my fickle attention,
are not books or photo albums stored therein
but rather thick layers of dust that cause tension
and so the trusty bookshelf welcomes my break-in,
hoping that I may learn from error of my neglect,
reforming lethargic habits and pick up a book
and by doing so, at least offer some respect,
even if it ends up as but a cursory look.
Oh worthy storehouse of knowledge,
I applaud your ability to serve with verve,
judging me not irrespective if I acknowledge
the comfort you provide, which I doubt I deserve
for although many a friend has come and gone
your stoic presence in my life is reassuring,
to elevate my mood if I become forlorn
and so your presence is my mooring.
23-February-2023
Write an Ode Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Jeff Kyser
Tozer, deep - thoughts
well explored with-
in the realm of man
Thankfulness, for what man
cannot touch -
deep mysteries of an eternal God
our speech, no matter
how profound cannot reach
the depths, God’s eternal
storehouse
A few things stored:
his love, grace, mercy
What’s left to explore:
(between the parentheses
of eternity)
angels sweeping out flakes
lackadaisically
successive shift:
fast and furious
angels on break
storehouse still
to be emptied
funniest sight?
a full-size snowman
drops from the clouds
foreman’s mad
he smiles though
at the cheeriest
curveball snow
angel’s never angry more
than a millisecond
heaven’s work a joy
yesterday, today and forever
Nov 2022
Expectations roaming unbridled in my brain
Like high hopes, they command my attention
After a dry spell, like the promise of rain.
Plans so rich in their promise I feel the strain
Vying with each other in bouts of contention
Expectations roaming unbridled in my brain.
With just a few I’d have so much to gain
But I’d need a giant storehouse for retention
After a dry spell, like the promise of rain.
These fantastic ideas fall like a spring rain
I’d list them, but there are too many to mention
Expectations roaming unbridled in my brain.
I haven’t the time to explore or explain
The intricacies of each, depth, or dimension
After a dry spell, like the promise of rain,
Then, they come to me, a deluge so plain
Sometimes causing me much apprehension
Expectations roaming unbridled in my brain
After a dry spell, like the promise of rain.
Written November 7, 2022
When rhymes forsake me, my pen's then bled dry;
and eloquent lines rich in metaphor
die before the inkwell's used up, here and by:
for the once-teeming storehouse reservoirs
of song flee my page, though write in hope I try!
“How to awaken the dead muse again?”
I plead. “O what answer, what remedy
are main: the keys to my mind's creative drain!?”
So, in distress, to God I make my plea.
I let the tired fields of my mind lie fallow:
and as time passed, my pen regains its powers;
so new strains sing unwan and unsallow,
and antique odes on clouds and daffodil flowers
may refresh this infant, newborn sonnet,
with life from this present time, and planet.
Memories store moments in time,
from devastating to sublime
replayed in silent pantomime;
only I see.
I see myself leaning to crawl,
smiling when I'd stumble and fall
and bang my nogin on the wall;
as a toddler.
I sometimes recall hurtful things,
like beatings or bumblebee stings
that draw tears, tugging my heartstrings;
from shadows past.
But I prefer snapshots of joy,
like when I was a little boy
and Santa brought me a new toy;
on Christmas morn.
I'd shimmy up trees way back then
before I joined the world of men,
when I was maybe nine or ten;
I loved the woods.
A storehouse for hyperbole,
memories script reality.
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