Living God

Mother And I

He, I hear, is terminally ill…  

I rush down from a city far

To be with my living god !

Smell the odor of a life churned

Spent pure

On balance, hard earned.

He indeed is terminally ill…

By his bed I bear the blast

Of brilliance trapped in torpid cast

Of failing body

A morbid repast

Of macro nature

Knawing unseen

The flesh in pasture

Untill we discover

The transcending power

Of a touch :

The links our immortal

And we silently sense

The surge

Of the best being

I’ll ever be

In his trusted shadow

Sometime in a future farwawy.

He is then in my each recall

Limpid, towering and fearless

Friendly, loved

And compassionate

Spirited deep, respected

Sharp immense

Now reduced to just half a tense …

Witnessing in eerie

I sense the night stretch

In his fixed look

Staring soft and resonate

To sounds of scripture I read

Till It then happened

In quick succession

His withdrawal calm

Recession from this realm

And his last breath.

Our wait… stilled

Silence howling within

Through death…

And cremation.

 * * *

The news drew the shallow heirs

To commiserate

Posing red weird

Seeming low, stooping lower

Eyes glued to assets meager

Broaching sly their soft claims

Iliberal, their covet strange

Set off odd

In hours of our pain

They trigger brawls

The woman faints of their free-for-all

Of men she nurtured

Loved, and made them tall

Were clawing now

As enemies sworn

Without a heart

Pitched against

In sub-human way.

Their game’s foiled with some wit

Calibrated drama, deliberately knit

It saddened us

Still at crease

In space secured

We convalesce in peace :

Mother and I in rally

Succour each

So happily.

Ginosko

@    http://ginoskoliteraryjournal.com/images/ginosko11.pdf

It is a magazine of sincerity, honesty, truth and fulness.

Enjoy some snippets here below …

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From Dianna Henning 

(1) TO BORROW RADIANCE

Sometimes it’s so subtle

It’s mistaken for something else.

A moth tumbled from night’s porch light

A stone in the heel of your shoe.

Even a tattered corner of sunshine is better

Than believing it’s never found.

Didn’t the widow, stripped in grief

Reveal pure angle of cheek bone—

Hadn’t she, at last, set her face free?

You’d gladly peel off that expression

Smooth it down over your own years

The radiant tucked behind ears.

Under some circumstances

Beauty is mistaken for grief.

But in the widow’s case, the opposite—

A face so clear it revealed her soul—

Enlargement emerging from loss.

The moth was a small god on the porch

The stone, nugget of an angel.

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(2) ACROSS FROM MY SISTER’S RED VT SCHOOL-HOUSE

THE HOME SHE & HER HUSBAND REMODELED

An elderly man sits on a stone wall outside his house

Fondles his dog’s ears, caresses its back.

Nearby, a shovel remains upright, plugged

As though an exclamation stuck in earth.

He won’t pull it out.

He has terminal cancer.

From across the street, I imagine

The choked back tears as his eye lavishes

Over all that’s quietly familiar;

His land shaped to a dream

Of rural beauty, rural equipoise: his lawn

Hedged with sprays of multicolored wildflowers

Porch perched above a lap of greenery

So surprisingly vivid it burns my eyes

As I watch him again and again

Lovingly cuff his black spaniel.

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Strangers Between Walls  by Andrei Guruianu

What can I say about changing place

And the weary night song piled outside every window ?

It can weigh you down like happiness, like rain, like the notion of destiny

Or an obligatory farewell that you carry strapped to your shoulders.

Believe me, if it would help you see things in a different light

I would only write poems about ballerinas and dream gardens.

The sun and the fresh air would do you a world of good.

And I would make it rain just enough to spruce up the flowers.

I would do all of this in a French dialect

And part my hair accordingly to look like a soft smile.

But the truth is I could never understand

Why a single language is not enough.

Breath blown into an empty bottle

And tossed into the nearest stream.

This human need for a philosophy of words

When a howl would do much better.

After all, we are only dogs missing the fancy leash

And the tinderbox of home we sometimes call a house.

Places change because with the years we change even less.

We’ve spent too much time in the dirt

And now everything is relative to it, because of it.

More or less under our fingernails.

Scrape away, rinse and repeat

And still the hounding memory of nights under the stars.

Backs to the chill of dry ground

And nothing but a long sigh

For a sheet to pull up to the neck.

How many sighs does it take to make a death ?

Let’s begin counting now and see who gets there first.

Ce n’est pas le cirque du soleil after all.

That much any fool could tell you for a nickel.

Just open your eyes

When the night peaks at its most exotic and serious black.

We’ve been here before, you and I.

Heard sounds that would never make sense out of context.

But there was no need to translate what the crickets said.

For once there was no need.

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By Gerd Theissen

Wwill have won if we have an inkling

That our life contains a message –

To us and through us and for others;

If we become certain

That the creator of our life wants

To say something through us :

And he needs us for that.

He also needs little things in our lives.

We will have won if we become certain

That between life and death

We represent something as indestructible

As the meaning of a figure in a parable

If we understand our life

As an idea of God

Which we may think through further;

In short, if we ourselves

Become a meaningful parable.

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For more, especially the longer works, please visit the magazine site on the web.

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I can’t explain but the pic below is an entire poem in itself !

English: Stone Wall Stone wall and sign at the...