poem english 10

SEARCHING...

searching for myself ,
searching here and there
in the eyes of others,
everywhere feeling of selfishness
just want to eat me,
I'm afraid, I came back,
then I found my self,
hidden in the fourth corner of my heart

Shukla Snehsaurabh RETURN

THE INTREPID SEMINARIANS SEVEN

On an off day,
clear and cold,
the seminarians
intrepid seven
donned their skates
and headed north
toward Grand Lake
across the frozen
creeks and streams
of Mercer County.

Cheerful comradery
filled the air
as the group
pressed their blades
on Carthagina Creek
at the far east edge
of the seminary.

Tall, stalwart,
and
well seasoned,
Ranly of Ohio
and
Lizza of New York State
led the troupe.

From one creek or stream
into another
and another,
seven pairs of skates,
back and forth
back and forth,
their blades,
in sunlight gleaming.
Cutting and carving,
cutting and carving,
their sound,
in creek banks replicating.

On and on
mile after mile
they trekked,
as brambles and thickets
and
trees of every size
glided by,
their tempo only broken
by a greenhorn skater's
intermittent plunge
upon the parted ice.

At length, the skaters reached
a stream of greater sweep,
the beautiful St. Marie.

With quickening pace,
they followed straight
along its race,
until it interfaced
with huge Grand Lake.

At the sight
of a mirror of ice,
that seemed a vault of sky
the skaters, euphoric,
soared like birds
in continental flight.

Small dots,
in such immensity,
what notions did they ken
of His Great Majesty?

Virgil Gelormino RETURN

SIBERIAN WINTER

Siberian winter shows its right:
40 degrees – everything white!
Cold air is sparkling in transparent sky
Beautiful pictures make happy one’s eye!

The nature is sleeping covered by snow -
Only smoke from chimneys slowly goes.
All branches of trees in the frame of hoarfrost
Adults & children enjoy this time most.

Whimsical window patterns designed
By a Nature Artist – whose taste is divine!
Each piece is unique & never remade –
You’ll always its brilliance appreciate!

The cold makes people move fast in the street -
No one wants to be bitten by it!
Warm coats, fur hats, woolen mittens & shoes,
Thousands sweaters & socks people use!

Frozen noses – it’s normal for us,
Red cheeks & smiles warm Siberian hearts!
Our winter is a queen of the time!
God blessed Siberia! It is really fine!

Olga Ryazantseva RETURN

TO THE PAINTER

IF I COULD PAINT, the colors would know no bounds
I will color the skies as I shall color the grounds
And the deft of silence with all its whisking sounds

I will paint the emerald fields and the chocolate ways
I will paint the atmosphere and the wind that sways
And the young and prudent springs of all the passing Mays

I THEN, in a secret stroke, shall paint the rising smoke
That dwindles from the chimneys of some forgotten folk
And the naked night inside the evening cloak

I will paint the gust and the cold I must
And I see no reason-- why I won’t paint the dust
Offcourse the spongy soil and orange fungal crust

A distant field of flowers which looks a purple ridge
And the weak and dwindling wine that twins around the bridge
I will be precise enough to paint its every stitch

My striking lady friend, her cold and pesky trend
I will paint her eyes and looks that never end
That fragrance of long hair and time we had to spend

I will make her nimble hands, caressing on my face
I will make her curly, spindling, shining glittering grace
And the dance of dried-up leaves inside my violin case

Look these wishful dreams -- fly away like birds
And never do they settle but move-on to onwards
I will paint these lines and the dim and dribbling words

I will paint the mountain peaks and their pallid snow
I will paint the jazzing trees in faster winds and slow
Then my ever spurting wishes so they may not grow

BUT, I cannot paint.

Sarim Baig RETURN

OLD AGE

I never really thought
that I’d grow old
but here I am --
my footsteps slow.
What happened to the joyful winds
that swirled beneath my skin and bones?
What happened to the beating of my heart
that pulsed life’s passions
through my soul?

I never thought
my supple limbs
would freeze,
and dry like winter twigs –
Nor melodies which once poured forth
would change to harsh and crackling tones
I search my image in the mirror
for traces of
myself before.

Although I never thought
there could be joy
in those whose heads
were bowed and gray.
when one no longer danced or sang,
or was caressed by youthful love,
I find that joys once found without
are found abundantly
within.

Terry Silver RETURN