In days of youth and out to eat
each full of jokes and words and tales
we enjoyed this little weekly treat
while watching an old gray couple

They hardly say a thing at all
amid the restaurant noise and bustle
she's kind of short, he's not too tall
sitting in their booth cocoon

A near table erupts with raucous song
someone's birthday celebration
she nudges him, they smile, not long
turn attention back to one another

swimming with the sharks
or splashing in the pool
olympic in size or not

the idea is to get the feet wet
look,
there's a poem wiggling
(it's not a toe)
don't let it get away!

Good luck, splash, olympic and shark poolers, have fun and let's learn something. I admit I know little of the logistics about creating poetry; hopefully I can up my game to the next level.

"AM I TOO TAME"
Margaret Ann Waddicor 15th May 2011.

Am I too tame, too sentimental, too sweet,
told that I was sweet last week,
I reacted thinking, is that ALL.

Do I want to be sweet,
and what does that really mean anyway.

I also wish to be bold
and take a challenge in the blood-stained world
of the young
with their horror-loving minds aglow
with dirt and splendour.

Or do I.

Imperfect Future

Now, I fear, my age I show
By being fat and bald and slow.
I have no way to combat time
But hope to please you with this rhyme.

I dream about those years gone by,
When you and I were young and spry,
My memories still warm and clear,
Exciting times with you, my dear.

My student days, that grubby flat,
The swinging sixties, we cool cats
The night we met, our lives entwined,
These treasures kept fresh in my mind.

There are snails in my aquarium,
they eat and inch along the glass.
Fish don't harass or bother them
nor watch them as they slowly pass.

They slink along and slide about
within their mobile homes of shell,
creep like a bent old man with gout.
Yet they seem to do just swell.

But every once in a great while
these plodding, plain and mundane snails
turn loose and stretch and maybe smile?
and through the water they set sail!

here
hear
phantom photons
plunk and bounce
across a skull
made of space
and a small reflective buzz
looking for something to do

deciding to entitize
...to become something
a mouse, a snake,
or a poet
come what may

The light in many houses is
not a child's toy
(do angels play
with the brightness?)
my body too weary to
carry their strength;
a taste of Eve's apple and
nibbling at the root of the world,
past eyes became arrows
under strangely-familiar music,
language fingered hungry wolves:
a Dutch farm in circular embrace.

I milked sky in children's bones,
inside a tulip's belly; mud was my nickname
dirt-confused anger on grasses too gentle ---
'till pigeons nestle on the hillside.

BOOK OF PROSE
© Cyrus Dali Vesuvala

There’s people out there peeping through the window,
There’s people out there listening at the door-
So, grab your Book of Prose
And don’t you curl up close:
Can’t you see that someone’s coming across the floor…

Your Mama might float in through the curtained window,
Your Papa might walk in through that bolted door:
Then, no point my studious frown
When the book I’m holding is upside down:
Don’t think my heart can take this anymore…

If there is to be peace in the world,
There must be peace in the nations.

If there is to be peace in the nations,
There must be peace in the cities.

If there is to be peace in the cities,
There must be peace between neighbors.

If there is to be peace between neighbors,
There must be peace in the home.

If there is to be peace in the home,
There must be peace in the heart.

-- Lao Tzu (570-490 B.C.)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Promoting Peace, Nobel Laureates Square Off, Politely

Emotional Poets

Poets are but emotional beings
Trying to vomit inner feelings,
Commotion
And
All mental pollution
For they feel,
Sharing their inner salts
Will them heal…

Poets are all individual beings,
Each one has an expression
Of one’s own,
How does Neopoet that disown
And
Compress their views
On the poets
Those who are real poets
Are very few,
Including my reader,
Me and you…