crisis of the ordinary heart (a poem to all protests )

smoke and soot
did not touch
those iron faces of tyranny,
with their steel machines
of absolute subjugation,
out here beneath flags
toiled those of the land
the factory
the shop
the office
doctors bound by bureaucracy
cast stones and blazing petroleum,
accepting water cannon baptism,
cause and conquest paramount,
streets configured
by the ordered suburban dream
now frenzied battlegrounds
of a martyrs distinction,
resolute and proud,
those with only hope as protection
fought on

 

 

el humo y el hollín
no tocó
esas caras de hierro de la tiranía,
con sus máquinas de acero
sometimiento de la absoluta,
aquí debajo banderas
trabajado los de la tierra
la fábrica
la tienda
la oficina
médicos vinculados por la burocracia
tirar piedras y petróleo en llamas,
aceptar el bautismo cañones de agua,
causar y la conquista de suma importancia,
calles configuradas
por el sueño suburbano ordenado
campos de batalla ahora frenéticos
de una distinción mártires,
decidido y orgulloso,
los que sólo tienen la esperanza de que la protección
luchó en

 

la fumée et de la suie
ne pas toucher
ces visages de fer de la tyrannie,
avec leurs machines d’acier
assujettissement des absolue,
ici sous les drapeaux
peiné ceux de la terre
l’usine
la boutique
le bureau
médecins liés par la bureaucratie
jeter des pierres et du pétrole de plomb,
accepter le baptême de canons à eau,
provoquer et de conquête primordiale,
rues configurés
par le rêve de la banlieue commandé
les champs de bataille maintenant frénétiques
d’une distinction des martyrs,
résolue et fier,
ceux avec seulement espérer que la protection
combattu sur

 

дим і сажа
не чіпали
ці залізні особи тиранії,
з їх стали машини
абсолютного підпорядкування,
тут під прапорами
трудилися ті землі
завод
магазин
офіс
лікарі пов’язані з бюрократією
кидав камінням і палаючий нафту,
приймаючи водомети хрещення,
викликати і завоювання першорядне значення,
вулиці налаштовані
впорядкованої приміському сні
тепер скажені поля бою
з мучеників відмінності,
рішуча і горда,
ті з тільки сподіватися, як захист
воював на

 

Rauch und Ruß
nicht berühren
diese Eisen Gesichter der Tyrannei,
mit ihren Stahl-Maschinen
der absoluten Unterwerfung,
hier unter Fahnen
geschuftet aus dem Boden
die Fabrik
der Shop
das Büro
Ärzte von Bürokratie gebunden
werfen Steine ​​und brennenden Erdöl-,
Annahme von Wasserwerfern Taufe
verursachen und Eroberung von größter Bedeutung,
Straßen konfiguriert
von der bestellten S-Traum
Jetzt rasenden Schlachtfelder
eines Märtyrer Unterscheidung,
entschlossen und stolz,
diejenigen mit nur hoffen, als Schutz
kämpften auf

 

الدخان والسخام
لم يتطرق
تلك الوجوه الحديد من الاستبداد،
مع آلات الصلب بهم
إخضاع المطلق،
هنا تحت أعلام
كدوا تلك الأرض
المصنع
المحل
المكتب
الأطباء ملزمة البيروقراطية
يلقي الحجارة واشتعلت فيه النيران البترول،
قبول المعمودية خراطيم المياه،
وتسبب الغزو قصوى،
شوارع تكوين
بواسطة حلم الضواحي أمر
معارك الآن المسعور
من التمييز الشهداء،
حازمة وفخور،
أولئك الذين لديهم الأمل الوحيد كحماية
قاتلوا على

 

 

apartment to let

vibrant radiator harmony,
getting to his ears
before the daylight
ripped open his eyes,
and alphabet soup thoughts
swilled from side to side
in the bowl that is his skull,
twnty seven permutations
of how the day
would end up being,
rolling a cigarette,
strips of paper cut from
an old shelley poetry book
as if inhaling the words
would give creedence to his own,
that languished on pages
scattered like a womans dirty
underwear across the floor,
that masterpiece so often
rewritten not compiled,
new words scraped away the old
confidence from caffeine
lifted him to another level,
sun filled evey corner
a morning bronze age
renaissance to the heart,
sat up scratching legs
it would be complete

Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien

Robert Creely – To And

poetry , poem

Martin Adan – Sea and Shell

A woman and a ball: out of a sudden agreement
the world forms, in its inane rotation.
It begins with the fish, which inhabits the wasteland.

A curve sighs. Nothing swells immediately.
A mathematical point: the sphere,
void, terrestrial, a cloud of breath.

If the chimera doesn’t declare itself
in service and pure verse,
it will wail its words of truth.

The world revolves in an animal rush.
The most humble fish, of all the mud,
mired in the eye, bearing the colure.

A leg, or terror, arises, expands:
the air is the passion of the bather:
light, in recess, flashes and dies out.

A woman and a ball drop from a bristle,
a thin line of ice in which everything concludes,
matter the hand raises into view.

World in the air, simple being and aspect:
algae rising boldly within the descent.
A fish that bites its own tail bleeds mud.

Fabio, this passage and flow and writhing I’m thinking of
is the world: element, eruption: everything, nothing,
in the immense power.

From the rhythm: figures and the first creed,
and happiness, a lesson for the universe as it rolls
into time, pulling along its shell and ancient verse.

translated by Katie Silver and Rick London

poesia, poema

Ferenc Juhasz – Birth Of A Foal

As May was opening the rosebuds,

elder and lilac beginning to bloom,

it was time for the mare to foal.

She’d rest herself, or hobble lazily

after the boy who sang as he led her

to pasture, wading through the meadowflowers.

They wandered back at dusk, bone-tired,

the moon perched on a blue shoulder of sky.

Then the mare lay down,

sweating and trembling, on her straw in the stable.

The drowsy, heavy-bellied cows

surrounded her, waiting, watching, snuffing.

Later, when even the hay slept

and the shaft of the Plough pointed South,

the foal was born. Hours the mare

spent licking the foal with its glue-blind eyes.

And the foal slept at her side,

a heap of feathers ripped from a bed.

Straw never spread as soft as this.

Milk or snow never slept like a foal.

Dawn bounced up in a bright red hat,

waved at the world and skipped away.

Up staggered the foal,

its hooves were jelly – knots of foam.

Then day sniffed with its blue nose

through the open stable window, and found them –

the foal nuzzling its mother,

velvet fumbling for her milk.

Then all the trees were talking at once,

chickens scrabbled in the yard,

like golden flowers

envy withered the last stars.

Gyorgi Petri – Hanging Question

Here I’m sitting on the bed,
I can see all the way out to the doorway,
I can see
my wintercoat, my hat,
my scarf
on the hanger.
Why not
my wintercoat, my hat
my scarf
sitting here on the bed,
and me hanging
on the hanger?

Would they watch me?

and you know how to bake

around the mouth

cakemix stolen from the bowl

a taste of the unbaked

sweeter than expected,

holding back the urge

to lick lips noisily ,

washed it away

as a drunkard would

bottle sloshed whiskey

turned burnt caramel,

bowl slipped from edge

of table with enormous shatter,

pieces glazed

spread as his foot got cut

spilled as a sacrifice

for he was a prophet

born in anticipation

growing to expectation,

the world full of paraphernalia

that only a poet mends,

blood painted in circles,

scratching balls in shorts,

where was the thunder

to his profanity,

his stem to water

those fragrant vaginal daisies

errors and promises,

love had entered an interval,

trumps inflated cotton,

she came to see

shaking head

ash fell from her cigarette,

they had binds

beyond gold bands

and a chapel promise,

no atomic desolation would separate

leave it she would say

taking his hand

led to another room

more doors away from

the violent splatter on the walls

best to ignore

her voice sleepy not unsound

sat limply hung out to dry,

she stood adjusted nightgown,

it would be clean,

and wounds heal

maybe the interval was over

beat, poetry , poem

dVersePoets

wordle, sound, war

Sunday Whirl

A poem for dVersePoets and Sunday Whirl , dVerse needed a beat sound and i hope i hit the notes

 

 

others false horizons

her tears passed through

porous cheeks

to be shed again in happiness,

they opened a living room

in her head

space unmirrored void  of shine,

can her body be more

than a flesh machine,

facing the cashier

was that smile as false

as nails and lashes,

did he leave you

startled  by such a personal voice

that probed,

leaning back from her

leaning forward,

men are useless you know

she did not want to respond

instead put mayo

cheese and pasta in a bag

paid and left

leaving cashier

to fuss with tied back

dyed blonde hair,

waiting for another customer,

in the parking lot

a wind whipped off the lake,

opening tailgate

placed bag in,

and leaned on car side

memories studded her mind

and laughed

loud enough for only herself

to hear

freeverse, poetry , poem

dVersePoets

no more dirty shoes

moon leaves hoofprint clouds

as with horses it races,

old stars more than pieces of rock

show somber interest,

there would be no more

shallowness to  the sun,

as on earth below

with fingers in urn

scattering ashes

feeding eternal foliage,

those hoofbeats drummed your name

quick reflection passing over water

ashamed moon hides,

the longness of souls given to solitude,

ashes scattered in arcs

summer has laid it’s green pasture

as darkness fills the air

fireflies imagined appear

wishing for a net to catch them in

and crush with celestial hammer,

empty urn falls

shattered by hoofbeats,

damp meadow reveals the place

you began,

ambiguous shadows almost bestial,

tears make streets upon your face

all that could be over was,

coming with dust, dreams and flesh

the enchanted

and persistent stars

dverselogo

on notable sea

tone dialing remedy

better than those gulls

filling the air with

pull of sea,

encroaching on ears

cochlea tremors

insistent and provocative,

life needed to be in boxes

without labels,

identifying was not the issue

it was separation,

the telephone a child

cradled under chin

suckling on words,

spectacles perched with vertigo

on top of a crooked nose,

lips always poised

to speak but that was of

no consequence as sound

could carry further than voice,

a scream long prolonged

that was what pain brought,

gulls worse than cicadas

blood curled into fingers

then returned leaving them white

and grasping

still nothing,

slit your veins and fill a boat

with a swilling legacy

of something that

should of been,

letting gulls fall

bathing feathers redder

freeverse, poetry , poem

dVersePoets