J G's Pages for Poets

Page No 16

Poem No 91 is by BARBARA SMITH (famous for writing the first poem in these pages!)

OSTEOPOROSIS

In a world
of mud
and shoes,
bent body's
prisoner.
He shuffles by.

Puddles for mirrors
to see the sky,
Oil gives him rainbows
for sudden joy.
As humanity intact,
he passes by.


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Poem No 92

 by PAULA PARKER


NO SMOKING

 The old man hunches forward
 inside himself.
 Thin lips close around a cigarette.
 The light flares as his breath draws from it.
 All consumingly it is a joy.
 Pleasures filter through his frame
 A faint cough escapes
 as he re-raises his  hands
 to dry lips
 and draws once more.
 Consuming the life from a cigarette.

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Here is another poem from FAY EAGLE  (See Page No 2)

No 93

'THE SUNFLOWER IS MINE IN A WAY'  (Van Gogh)

Shedding his muted Northern hues

his palette glows with vibrant yellows, reds

as bright Provençal sun warm-cloaks him.

He stages sunflowers posed in various vases,

backcloths yellow, blue or green.

Makes tactile stubbly sulphur seedheads,

citron flowers and buds

by using coarse-ground pigments

thickly, quickly painted.

 

He fills his studio and Gauguin's room

with pictures of these yellow blooms

and copies them for winter consolation.

 

Gauguin paints him absorbed at his easel

sweeping fields of sunflowers with his brush.

 

 


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Poem No 94 is from SYD LEATHWOOD

                                                        THE WASTED MEN

               

                                               As midnight stalks the city streets,

                                                            I see them lie.

                                            Within their cardboard coffins, wasted men.

                                         Who are not  really dead, who do not really live,

                                                 Awaiting mornings resurrection.

 

                                     The winter frost now gilds their sleeping forms.

                               As though deaths hand had stroked their pallid cheeks,

                                                In sad flirtation. Beckoning them,

                                                   From days of black despair

                                                         To sweet oblivion.

 

                                       They twist and murmur in their restless sleep,

                                        Remembering happier times and days gone by.

                                        And those dear loved one's, Mother, Father, Son.

                                                             Long separated now

                                                              By time and space.

 

                                          So winter morning dawns so sad and grey,

                                         Across those sleeping forms of wasted men.

                                               They wake from restless slumber

                                                            To blank futility,

                                                               Another day
Poem No 95

from ROS BURTON

 

SHADOWS

I have two shadows

One in front of me

One to the side

I'm short and stubby

Yet tall and thin

My shadow changes

By the glare of the streetlight

By the cast of the moon

Forming different images

Joined to my feet

Walking with me

To the front and the side

I wonder at the emptiness behind
you would like to submit a poem for consideration or to comment on these pages

here is my address..... jg@pagesforpoets.co.uk         Click and complete the e-mail. 

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