Tuesday, May 2, 2017

Four New Poems


Enough
by Carmine Giordano

There's enough for all!
The world's so big.
It's our want beyond the rose,
beyond the robin's call,
that makes it small.

*                      *                     *

Ma'arrat Al-Numan (The Second Crusade)

by Joyosemar Kaboco


The host blood lies on the mob in the green fields of Ma'arrat.
Encrypted bodies elám in the atom of the lost bullets, that wander in the face of the child.
Abandoned in the labyrinth where blood and tears cross the horizon of the streets dressed in mourning.
The web of death succumbs to the temples under the gaze of the mysterious creature of Allah.
The voices announce death on the sabers of the soldiers of the underworld.
Bombs and call terrified everything, 
There are cries and asbestos of the Kalachinikovs' bullets opening tombs over the ruins.
One sees nothing but the disintegrated dust of bodies on the floor of the bare streets.
Desires are sheltered in the infinite beyond, of the dark illusion without comfort.
I see entourage bodies clotted without coffee and the world is silent on the red carpets.
The days become vulnerable nights, the verses of the Qur'an become dim.
Jihad, Jihad.... Who will save the carnage? Oh Ma'arrat.
A rhetorical vision is born, burning up the papal tales of wandering life.
O Ma'arrat, mother of Abu Alaa Al Maari poet of the poets, march in the wind on the great mosque and shines the soul.
The rye of rosy peace will come over the darkness in the melting of the night awaiting the twilight.
And the dove will bring the epistle of forgiveness in the beak. 

*                      *                     *
Solemn Vows
by Cirmine Geordano

Pity the poor nuns and priests,
those brides of Christ, 
those eunuchs for the kingdom
who may neither copulate nor fornicate 
but only meet their guys or gals
in congress mystical
as though the body animal and its joys 
were not of god's intention,
as though Jesus in his dreaming
did not recall the Magdalene's sway,
the way the curve of her back 
kept calling out some aching thing in him
that was not father, son, nor holy ghost,
as though his mother had not left his afterbirth,
as though he didn't feel the lash, 
the thorns, the stumble on his way,
as though his body on the cross they wear
were really made of beaten gold or steel,
and had not hung there on that hill--
the son of man naked to the air,
the organ of their severe contrition 
pendant, human in his groin.

*                      *                     *

A Haiku

by Leonardo Moon

 


I loosen my self
From the high throne of visions 
And breathe once again. 

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