Urban Opera - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

Urban Opera

Metropolitan morning
A well orchestrated, systematic
Waltz of movement
Within the walls of this
Mirrored-glass amphitheatre
The bel canto of the newspaperman
Sounds the opening overture
Collecting change in classical rendition
Choruses in suits and skirts
Pouring out of train cars
Scissoring down city streets
Balancing cardboard coffee cups
And digital librettos
Scores of tight-pant castratos
Clutching mobile phones
With dramatic furore
Prima donna figures
Cat-walking at intersections,
Heels clicking on cement sidewalks
When suddenly
A car is cut off by cyclists riding
Hands flying, voices rising
The shrill soprano of the ambulance arriving
Sirens sounding, traffic honking
A flash-mob freeze
Of pedestrians gawking
Slowly the crowds
Continue on commute
Promising young professionals
In crescendo parting
With a pitch-perfect kiss.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

This poem can be used for free as long as the name of the author is included and the author is given credit.
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I am like a piece of glass - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

I am like a piece of glass

I am like a piece of glass
Among the rocks in a riverbed
Taken downstream
And deposited onto
The seashore
I do not belong
Amoung the granites
The micas
The shales
Chipped off a cliff face
Split apart during a freeze
I was crafted
Blown, pressed, drawn
Worked in fire until
Shaped and tempered
To shine
A luminous crystalline
Created for a purpose
But instead
Found myself floating in a river
Caught up in competitive waters
Pulled down in the social undertow
Washed downstream
In the current of history
Tumbled and rounded
Ground in gravels
Jossled and pitted by
Crowds of crashing pebbles
Moshing together in salty tides
Seived back and forth
Until feeling  seasick
Pounded by storm swells
Broken and discarded fragments
Pitting my glossy face
Tempering my brilliance
Until my surface was matte
Frosted from years of confrontation
And disapointment
Indistinguishable from the
Sediments around me
Buried in an overpopulated
Shore of particles
Out of touch with our origin
But even without my transparency
You come along and recognize me
Acknowledge that I am different
Pick me up from among the aggregates
Put me in your pocket
And take me home.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

This poem can be used for free as long as the name of the author is included and the author is given credit.
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Once a summer day in a pub garden - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

Once a summer day in a pub garden

Hot Asphalt and beer butts,
cigarette bellies and sweaty glasses of wine
30 degrees in London and
the pub garden has pints
shimmering in the sunshine
flirting with the summer fruits
in Pimms and lemonade
Sheer blouses and low tanks
eye Football  jerseys
shy white feet in sandals
tummy rolls, muffin tops,
and squishy thighs
squeezing out of shorts like
toothpaste forced out of a tube
wood picnic tables covered
with cider stains
sticky youth in sunglasses
chattering over the sizzle
of the grill
the buzzing of bees
a pissed group of chaps
singing loudly in the corner
taking in
lingering breaths
of tobacco and
the smoke of sausage barbecue.


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

This poem can be used for free as long as the name of the author is included and the author is given credit.
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Decades - By Anna McCarthy Hoffman

Decades

I had a Victorian youth
Ribbons and bows wallpaper
Fancy buttons, lace, teddy bears
Engraved silver boxes, British literature
Secret love letters and poetic notions
Sentimental, collecting everything with a memory
Treasures on display in my closet museum
Modest, moral, proper
Modelling lady-like behaviour with a
Pockets full of posies
My Twenties were Art Nouveau
Arts and Crafts and Style Liberte
I fell in love with Morris, Klimt, Mackintosh
The coffee houses of Vienna and Prague
Walls, desks, dressers
Empty spaces and canvases
Cluttered with objects d’ art
Filling me, my imagination
With the promise of a beautiful life
Inspiring artists, utopian bohemia
Now in my thirties
I am decidedly Deco
More elegant and restrained
Subtle, streamlined, bold
Grounded and professional
My forms follow function
Changes in values:
Simplicity, honesty, purity
Of character and expression
Evolving with the decades
Exploring and distilling
The movements within myself


- Written by: Anna McCarthy Hoffman

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OUTSIDERS - By Fortune Oguzie Azuike

OUTSIDERS

We listen calmly
To the voices of milked goats and cows
in worshipful repose on their prayer-wheel

Still we travel many miles
Like second-hand children
With a borrowed surname

Can this side-saddle perch now
On Grandmother's arms
Keep us free from the hot sand?

Can the standing ponds bring respite
For the drudgery of the dry season
As we wait patiently
For the unending migration
Of our first meeting?


- Written by: Fortune Oguzie Azuike

This poem can be used for free as long as the name of the author is included and the author is given credit.
If the poem is published online, please include a link to this post.

POOR AND HUNCHBACK - By FORTUNE OGUZIE AZUIKE

POOR AND HUNCHBACK

Spare a thought
or waste the reason:
a hungry man thinks deeper
all that takes a lifetime

soundscape of hysteria
a condemning, restraining voice
empathy or lunacy
no one really cares.


- Written by:  FORTUNE OGUZIE AZUIKE

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Peach Sweet - By Lamar Cole

Peach Sweet

Sweetheart is peach sweet.
God's natural treat.
Refreshing taste, lovely face.
Dew dripping on the skin.
Love in the orchard begins.
Romance is peeled.
Under the stars, this love is sealed.


- Written by: Lamar Cole

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If the poem is published online, please include a link to this post.

Green creek - By Mike waltz

Green creek

There must have been a point
Where she looked back
To where the hoof
Met the trail.
Wagon wheel roll against the gravel.

Tack and harness clank
Against the old wood
Carried the cowboy right to her.

He would ask her to get on.
And the tip of his hat
Rolled out to
The fingers of his hands.

I'm sure there was a marked reluctance
She smiled and stepped up.

I can pin it on a place and time.
High in the California mountains
On an afternoon, in places like
Pikes peak and dunderberg
Virginia pass and the judges cabin.
I come from here.

They both said to take them back there
And sit by the glassy banks.
Bring them there to catch horses
Fast and long
To walk and breathe in
The passions of their own place.

To take them to green creek
Where I will take my child
And tell the stories

Look for wagon tracks
Coming home
And listen.


- Written by: Mike waltz

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LADY'S NIGHT - By Fortune Oguzie Azuike

LADY'S NIGHT

Mauve shadows of night's eerie trudge
Fade upon sheathed shadows giggling
I blackbeams of sibilant midnight blues
Dark streaks of subterfuge prawl in laughter
a foul-mouthed dearth, unsheathed
In lux of passionless vigour;
Lantern lamps dripping with oiled enthusiasm
Of gamehunters
A hump of grief in jaunty airs
Ablaze in putrid allure of lambada twist
Disco dance, high-heeled upon killer-curves a sentual feel
Infinitesimal in littleness of the grand slam;
Orgy of self slaughter in tandems
When cigarette fumes escape in bunches
Of ascending forms,
Sweet dying on lips of a swollen-headed spree:
Call of the red earth, the masculine midriff.


- Written by: Fortune Oguzie Azuike

This poem can be used for free as long as the name of the author is included and the author is given credit.
If the poem is published online, please include a link to this post.

Letter to Mr. Obama on his visit to Buchenwald - By Elma Ross

Letter to Mr. Obama on his visit to Buchenwald

Dear Mr. Obama, with respect, I hear you ask,
How did we get to Buchenwald?
Please grant me the honour, Mr. Obama,
To answer your question.
We got to Buchenwald by forgetting
The Anglo-Boer War: The camps of starvation
Of Boer children – indeed of their future nation.
We got to Buchenwald by ignoring
Those in the British camps: their fear and pain
As their cold bodies paid for British gain.
We got to Buchenwald by the British monarchy
Promoting Kitchener for selling a trend
That future psychopath leaders would follow:
Sending soldiers to attack the disabled, the weak
The elderly, desperate mothers,
and babies trusting and meek.
Destroying their livestock, their homes –
everything they had
Not blinking when the mothers were consumed
With fright and sad;
Transporting the defenceless in soiled wagons
of trains built for cattle
What the heck: fight the children, and win the battle!
Locking up the Boer kids to die of hunger and thirst
As their bodies gave up and the cells would burst.
Raping and terrorising Boer kids in every way
And then, stepping back, to simply say:
We, The British, will not pay proper restitution
We wipe our hands of the pain and confusion;
We won’t say sorry as we have no regret
The Boers and their offspring should deny the pain,
And forget –
This is how we got to Buchenwald, Mr Obama.


– Written by: Elma Ross

This poem can be used for free as long as the author is informed at Dr.ElmaRoss@yahoo.com, stating where and how it has been used. The poet (Elma Ross) should also be acknowledged.
It comes from the book: "British terrorism against Boer civilians: How Britain destroyed the Boer republics by starving civilians in concentration camps."

Apricot Tree - By Lamar Cole

Apricot Tree

Moonlit night, my love and me.
Laying under the apricot tree.
The fruit is sweet. As sweet as can be.
Laying under the apricot tree.
Love is ripe. All through the night.
Laying under the apricot tree.
Sweetheart's love is sweet. As sweet as can be.
Laying under the apricot tree.


- Written by: Lamar Cole

This poem can be used for free as long as the name of the author is included and the author is given credit.
If the poem is published online, please include a link to this post.
 

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