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 Apr 2013 Georgiana S
CharlesC
Cliff's shear face
sun's shadow recordings
endless pages...

Chips of glass
on pavement reflecting
not cutting now...

Time for haiku
new turbulence makes entry
quick light...

Spring sun warmth
winter chill seems past
fire danger...

Scrub oak branches
surprising elbows and turning
tree contains all...
Where goes the time when it flies?
Simplified by expression, and stained by clarity.
Smudge by lucidity
smeared by simplicity
tainted by intelligibility.
Tempus fugit as in time flies.
Sharply distressing with painful feelings
to the point of mental instability
morning or night
we become possessed with its mystic dealings.

Where goes the time when it runs?
Not a solitary explanation is found.
It happens and it won’t stop
until life terminates as well
without cause.
Derived of rationalisation
lacking understanding
short of justification
bursting with vindication
persistently and with conviction.

Where goes the time when it sails?
From the second that we’re born.
Where were we existing?
We cannot be so sure
Cannot recollect the past
Not for the first five of our years
Memory so blur, so shadowy
Hazy with distortions
obscure and confusing
Unit our mind starts slowly to recollect.

Where goes the time when it escapes?
The chronology of life so mysterious.
Nothing can solve its ambiguity
for time is a complex case
with an infinity of secrets.
What’s the obsession when we have so many setbacks
drawbacks and obstacles
obstructions and conundrums
to take care of before time perishes away
and leaves us stranded in oblivion.

Oh time, you magnificent of all mysteries,
the high and mighty of ambiguities.
Show us mercy and explain
we are not detectives of secrecies
your spell with us reflects on the whodunits.
Oh time of things past and yet to come
give us a clue as to what is to derive!
“Remember”
it softly replies “Make most of your lives”
“Once I fly away no one can have a replay”.
 Apr 2013 Georgiana S
Prabhu Iyer
There in that crevice, in that corner
buried in horror and humiliation:

a broken resolve, a frozen dream;

waiting in resurrection, guiding
us on, that still small voice
in the wilderness of the heart
that just never gets smothered.

There is a risen Lord in all of us, waiting
waiting to tide over, waiting to cross over;

Yes He finds us, when unsteady

faith is rocking in a hundred storms,
walking on the waters. Yes
the sea of Galilee is indeed here;
When in awe we sit by the doors

of that right reverend,
or that elevated achiever,

He allows our tears to wash his feet,

our hair to dry them up
and pours His simple love out;
He revives the dead in us; Yes,
He is death revived,

the resurrected Truth in us, the
eternal Hope of an unfamished fragrance.
 Mar 2013 Georgiana S
Prabhu Iyer
Smouldering pain of ancient harboured, in the heart inflamed
of a passion, amassed whole of suffering earth nestled in your breast,
came alive in her who mastered the seven realms, whose
aspiration ardent brought down in that simpleton, grace that
poured forth like a pitcher upturned on this world enamoured of death.

Ah, that simpleton who never could fathom caprice that condones
commerce in the very heart of the temple of justice, the virtue and sin
the learned uphold that cannot see in the neighbour's fall,
ones own, or how if the father that birthed the world is divine,
his children be brutes or kin of daemons that deserve stoning to death?

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!

A drop of blood dries the sands today, heavens weep in the tears
silent of she who stands by the cross today, even abandoned by those
for whom he gave so much; In the still dark night grace walked
the stormy water; and Lazarus returns from wherefore who knows;
A husbandsman reads and answers doubts in minds of learned pharisees.

For every whiplash cast was cast on the earth wide. Every insult
taunted the winds draping your arms. That girdle of thorns, mother,
was placed indeed on your mourning heart. When the cross
ascended slicing the firmament, heavens were mute to your pain,
lama sabachtani, sabachtani, grieves the earth unto the empty, parted skies.

O Magdala, Magdala, your daughter weeps today!
Here's a perspective on Mary Magdalene, the 'apostle to the apostles':   rarely celebrated, despite  much mention in the Gospels, and being the first to witness the most important event, the resurrection.

inspiration for use of 'simple' which I've cast in my context (simpleton), comes somewhat from my friend Jim: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/right-now-i-think-of-him/
Today , when I woke up
the tears were right there
eyes beholding something behind
the feeling which words cannot express
just the language of tears....


what was there the last moment,
and what is there right  now
Tears… ...Tears…… …. & tears………..


This world knows nothing about
Of ,their has been a big drought,
In the valley of the hearts where I lived,
Today I am alone but ……..
Something still there in the heart of hearts,
Pushing me up to shed
Tears…………..tears………..& tears…………………………




is there no way???
it is not easy for
me..........................
i cant
 Mar 2013 Georgiana S
Prabhu Iyer
There is a passion that rends the skies
dark of pain, to thunder forth
in this suffering world;

Grace that rains and brings forth
an oasis of refuge in this
world weak of flesh;

The spirit rises weighed on the cross
by the suffering inflicted in place
of Barabbases, thousands.

In the dunes of the desert, a call echoes:
husbandsman, tinkerman, everyman,

Never mind the pharisees;
The spirit to the letter is moon
to the mirage.

Weighed down by the burden of life,
you who have been told you deserve
nothing more than the dirt of the earth
you sinner, you sufferer,

A passion calls forth to you. So difficult
indeed is to see the father, aye,
lawmongers, enough for us to see
this humble son of a carpenter here;

O you crushed
under the wagon wheels of time
taste that love by which you are
before Abraham was.
Come, be pillars
in the mansion of your father;

Tiller toiling away in the sweat of life,
you on whose shoulders walk
the sweet-talking liars
who yet enthroned say
you are worth
only more taxation,

You can part waters. You are a miracle.
You drive away ghosts. You can
call the dead to life. Yet you are
love and see no difference
in Mary from Mary,

a secret ocean at the shore of an oasis
to drink of, until we are here
as He is in heaven.

Heaven for us to see and live here
not some unknowable hereafter.
Don't know how to describe this... liberation theology, or an inspiration, contemplating the approaching Good Friday...

Edited: 9/4/20 ('mirage' instead of 'rippled reflection')
Suddenly my thoughts run deeper
and become folded
inside the scent of the air
until they pull on my heart-strings
and watch
my tears cry tears of their  own.  
And I laugh and smile,
pretend to be happy
as if I don't remember
you're gone.

However, sorrow brings truth
as it closes in
to unravel the seconds
of each sleepless night
I have held for years unknown.  
And I realize,
it's time to move forward,
stop letting my tears
cry tears
of their own.
Copyright *Neva Flores @2013
 Mar 2013 Georgiana S
Dan Gray
Come my Love;
Sit a while
Spend some time with me.

Settle back
Close your eyes
Picture us by the sea.

The setting sun
The waves soft crash
Me, adoring thee.

We’re holding hands
Talking Love
We get settled, by the sea.

We talk of past
We talk of now
The future, what may be.

I taste your lips
Hold you near
We are comfy, you and me.

In whispered breath
We pledge our Love
Feelings root deep as any tree.

So when apart
And you think these things
I’ll be there with thee.

Dan Gray
2oo2
 Mar 2013 Georgiana S
bambi
decrepit
 Mar 2013 Georgiana S
bambi
If time allowed
I would return to you.

You and I are far too young,
to pray this world will not turn round.

You and I are far too young,
to pray our lives succumb.

Yet we lie awake at night
and waste away
by day.
This is unfinished--I just needed to articulate a thought.
 Mar 2013 Georgiana S
Prabhu Iyer
I.

A beat pulses through the song
rising like a plume of smoke
across the ridge.

The night rolls on.
A love languishes.

I can't help but
self-destruct.

The scattering clouds.
Heart-beats to the head-song.

Do you even exist?

II.

Arms upraised like those of a
tote bag. I surrender. Fold
up, like a gunny sack.

Not this, not this.

Stars flicker mourning my
slow disappearance.

You must, when I ask like this.

Dead man's procession. Every
***-holed road is a graveyard
of dogs. Dead, unsung.

III.

Milk spreads in the tea cup,
shooting out, widening,
tentacles, like fear.

IV.

Why is your voice this feeble?

My face, flatter than is usual
in this mirror?

You mean, you are me too?

I mean, does that even like
supposed to
mean something?

V.

I'm an Olympic hero. All of us.
Hubbub. Throb, to
the music-plume.

Mysterious plume.
Love. Instinct for suicide. Death. Fear. Renewal. Mystery.

An existential thought-stream. Free rhythm.
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