Section C In November 2016's ' A Showcase For P H Poets...[ Up To 15 Poems From Ph Friends; Expanding Horizons For P H Members & Visitors! ; Different Poems For Different Tastes; Poem by Bri Edwards

This evening my thoughts turn to my PH friends,
whose company I'm tempted to hope Never ends.
But hoping such is like hoping to repeat one's past.
As I've heard before: 'Nothing Ever Lasts ……..
forever.'

But as poets or at least as poem fans of sorts,
we, on PH, have here a display of poetic REPORTS …..
made by poets: Young and Old, She and He, Here and There,
Serious and Silly, Long-winded and Brief, Foul and Fair.

Nature, Love and Old age, Family, Fighting and Food.
ALL these topics and MORE! Some words ‘polite', others ‘rude'.
Haiku, Limerick, Ballad, Sonnet, and Free Verse.
If I could, I'd include one written backwards: in-REVERSE!

True, it's but a SMALL sampling of a VAST ARRAY …
of poems on PH and Elsewhere, so I'll now say:
'Thanks for allowing me to share some gifts from ….some 'Friends'!
May you ALL go now in Peace, and ALL have pleasant …….'ends'.'

(November 16, 2016)
Bri :)



Some information for Contributors AND Readers of the showcases:

Each Section (A, B, and maybe C) will hold 15 poems, maximum. EACH Section will accept ONE poem per poet, any length, any topic, any style, BUT I, Bri, will decide which poems are used. Unless a poet has arranged for me to ‘help myself', I shall wait for poems to be offered by the authors, all of whom ALWAYS will receive recognition for THEIR words.

The poems need NOT be new, need NOT be on PH already, and need NOT be in English [BUT English translations of non-English poems will be appreciated! ]. PLEASE proofread your poems! :)

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THE POETS (and titles) , up to 15, listed chronologically (more or less) in the order I received them:

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1 - Della Perry

Pandora Lost Hope

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2 - Is It Poetry

) Wedged Is The Hip Splitter (

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3 - Bri Edwards

Game 7: Hilton Versus Donump …[Inspired By Casey At The Bat, by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, And by The 2016 U.S. Presidential Election, And by Babe Ruth; Medium Long; Fantasy Baseball]

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4 - Aries Profanisaurus aka John Westlake

372. The Maiden And The Lone Wolf

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5 - Valsa George

The Death Of A Poet

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6 - Savita Tyagi

Happy Thanks Giving To All My Friends

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7 - Bharati Nayak

My Friends

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8 - Clarence Prince

Shame

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9 - Jacques Prevert [translator: PH member Eugene Levich]

Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Oiseau

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10 - Lora Colon

Welcome Home

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11 - Annette Aitken

Sands Of Time

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12 -? ?


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13 -? ?


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ETC. up to a maximum of 15 poems

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THE POEMS (and their authors) , up to 15 (usually) , listed in REVERSE ORDER of when I received them.

[SOMETHING NEW FROM BRI: 'if you like a poem here, please consider letting the poet know it. i get no reward for you doing that, and....maybe you will not either, .....except for knowing you may have brightened some poet's day! i sometimes receive comments on the showcase and particular poems, but that does not mean the POETS see the comments.' bri :) ]

ETC. (up to 15)
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12 -? ?


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11 - by Annette Aitken


Sands of Time

We walk along the sands of time
your fingers are entwined with mine
the moonlight shone upon your face
as we slowly turn into embrace.

The taste of you still on my lips
the scent of you upon my skin
overwhelming desire is rising
fire in us is re-igniting.

Along the sandy beach we roam
hand in hand and all aglow
a love once lost now reunited
fitting neatly in the moonlight.

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10 - by Lora Colon


Welcome Home

Your love was looking for a home
And my heart was a vacant room,
Cold and neglected was the hearth,
Not one ember to light the gloom

How I longed for love that would calm
The tempest crashing on my shore,
Then God placed your hand into mine
And troubled waters roiled no more

Darkened portals now radiate
As the hearth burns with a soft glow,
The warmth of love floods o'er this room,
As new blossoms heave through the snow

In this room draped with Heaven's light
Each day our love writes a new hymn,
While angels hum the melody
We embrace 'til our eyes grow dim

Together we walk the gardens,
The Tree of Love, laden with fruits,
No need to partake sparingly,
O, so strong and deep are the roots

You now hold the key to this room
From which I hope you'll never roam,
Each day I'll shower you with hugs
And kisses that say 'Welcome Home! '

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9 - by Jacques Prevert (1900-1977) ,
....translated to English by PH member Eugene Levich


To Paint The Portrait Of A Bird...

First paint a cage
With an open door
Then paint
Something pretty
Something simple
Something beautiful
Something useful
For the bird
Then place the canvas against a tree
In a garden
In a wood
Or in a forest
Hide yourself behind the tree
Without speaking
Without moving...
Sometimes the bird will arrive soon
But it could also easily take many years
For it to decide
Wait
Wait if necessary for years
The rapidity or slowness of the arrival of the bird
Has no connection with the success of the painting
When the bird arrives
If it arrives
Observe the most profound silence
Wait until the bird enters the cage
And when it has entered
Gently close the door with the brush
Then
Erase one by one all of the bars
While being careful not to touch any of the feathers of the bird
Then make a portrait of the tree
Choosing the most beautiful of its branches
For the bird
Paint also the green foliage and the freshness of the wind
The dust of the sun
And the noise of the creatures of the grass in the heat of summer
And then wait for the bird to decide to sing
If the bird does not sing
It's a bad sign
A sign that the painting is no good
But if it does sing it's a good sign
A sign that you can sign.
Then you gently pull out
One of the feathers of the bird
And you sign your name in a corner of the painting.


AND IN FRENCH:

Pour Faire le Portrait d'un Oiseau - par Jacques Prévert

Peindre d'abord une cage
avec une porte ouverte
peindre ensuite
quelque chose de joli
quelque chose de simple
quelque chose de beau
quelque chose d'util
pour l'oiseau
placer ensuite la toile contre un arbre
dans un jardin
dans un bois
ou dans un forêt
se cacher derrière l'arbre
sans rien dire
sans bouger...
Parfois l'oiseau arrive vite
mais il peut aussi bien mettre de longues années
avant de se décider
Ne pas se décourager
la vitesse ou la lenteur de l'arrivée de l'oiseau
n'ayant aucun rapport
avec la réussite du tableau
Quand l'oiseau arrive
s'il arrive
observer le plus profond silence
attendre que l'oiseau entre dans la cage
et quand il est entré
fermer doucement la porte avec le pinceau
puis
effacer un à un tous les barreaux
en ayant soin de ne toucher aucune des plumes de l'oiseau
peindre ensuite aussi le vert feuillage et la fraîcheur du vent
la poussière du soleil
et le bruit des bêtes de l'herbe dans la chaleur de l'été
et puis attendre que l'oiseau se décide à chanter
si l'oiseau ne chante pas
c'est mauvais signe
signe que le tableau est mauvais
mais s'il chante c'est bon signe
signe que vous pouvez signer
Alors vous arrachez tout doucement
une des plumes de l'oiseau
et vous écrivez votre nom dans un coin du tableau.

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8 - by Clarence Prince


Shame

Shame, where is it gone, it's a shame
No one seems to know, it's such a shame
In these days some of us don't know shame
They are making it become quite a fantasy
Even so, to have lost shame it's a big shame
It's not right for us to void our world of shame

While some people would like to get rid of it
With many of us it'll ever find a place of refuge
Even if, others will kill it for fame and fortune
We know having no shame is still a big shame
It reveals dishonesty but will improve virtue
It's not right for us to void our world of shame

It's an essential guide to induce us to be genuine
Usually it disfigures or dampens wrongdoer's face
It has great power that can change countenance
Revealing all types of misconduct and injustice
We will always need it to live a righteous lifestyle
It's not right for us to void our world of shame

Though seeing how many people are behaving
Shamefully they might've already killed shame
Since only those of us who know what shame is
Won't easily do or say things to make us ashamed
We try to live right for the sake of righteousness
It's not right for us to void our world of shame.

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7 - by Bharati Nayak


My Friends

Many friends do I have
How do I describe them
As I am what I am
Because of them

From my mother's womb
Till my final tomb
My days and nights
Are shaped by
My friends' love and whims

Is it not
When in mother's womb
Nutrition and tenderness
Of my mother
Shaped my body, spirit and soul?

After falling on this earth
Is it not that*
The beauty, care and love
To which I woke up
That helped me to stand up
May be called my friends?

Many many friends
Do I have
From my parents to teachers
Cousins to neighbors
From siblings to classmates
Colleagues to poet friends
I find a friend in them
Those who extend
Their friendly hands
Give their time and energy
Love and sympathy
Throw themselves around me
Both in the time of turmoil and peace
And have my character shaped.

I bow my head
In gratitude
And thank them
Million times
For all the beautiful gifts
To me
They have brought.

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*Bri's Note: Bharati gave me permission to add 'that' here. maybe i'm wrong to suggest it, but i don't think so, and she trusts me!

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6 - by Savita Tyagi


Happy Thanks Giving To All My Friends

Much is wrong in the world,
News casters would never
Let us forget it.
But then again
Much is beautiful in this world,
The people who love and care for us
Would always remind us.
Much is always there to bring us down
And feel disappointed.
But then again
Something is always there to bring
A smile on our face.
On this Thanks Giving
I would rather think of every body and every thing
That make life beautiful.
Be thankful to all who bring joy and happiness.
Wishing peace and love
To all poets and readers of this site.
Even from a distance
You have become a part of my life.

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5 - by Valsa George


The Death Of A Poet

Far from the din of madding crowd,
And away from the bustle of city streets,
I withdrew into a solitary spot,
To turn my thoughts into dazzling verse.

Shelley and Shakespeare came in view,
Emily and Eliot fell in line,
Their verse ringing loud and clear,
Their energy fanning fire within.

I dreamt of putting proper words,
To clothe my thoughts in striking notes,
Longed to pour my loaded heart,
In powerful verse to move the hearts.

But as I started scrawling down,
All that I had stored in hoards -
Ebbed out into mere froth and foam,
Leaving bits of broken thoughts.

I sallied out for a stunning theme,
And stroked my pen to put it down,
But topics eluded me one by one,
Unable to decide on what to dwell,

I rummaged my memory for apt words,
And dallied round with lofty themes.
Yet nothing other than splintered thoughts,
And hackneyed phrases came alive.

I strained hard to give them life,
And laboured in vain to make them rhyme,
‘The Blazing Sun' and ‘the Brilliant Star',
Both faded out with no trace of glow.

I envisioned before me the Sacred Mount,
To drink from the fountain gushing down,
But hot lava spurted out,
And the wings of fancy burnt outright!

No Muse appeared to enliven me,
Nor my fantasy lingered long,
I stared blank into the scroll in front,
Unable to scribble even a moving thought.

Like a soldier vanquished in war,
I put away my paper and pen.
Blowing out my urge to write,
I bowed before all Bards so famed.

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4 - by John Westlake


372. The Maiden And The Lone Wolf

She lay crying on the forest floor
naked and alone
abandoned by those she thought were her friends
her tears attracted the young white wolf
exiled from his pack just two nights before

They looked into each other's eyes
an understanding passed between them
it was not one of words for none were spoken
it was far deeper than any that could be said

He found in her a potential friend
one who he could protect and trust
she saw a confident and guardian
willing to keep her safe to listen without judging

From then on when they went to sleep
he curled up on her right hip
keeping watch throughout the night
until the sunrise brought a new day

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3 - by Bri Edwards


Game 7: Hilton Versus Donump …[Inspired By Casey At The Bat, by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, And by The 2016 U.S. Presidential Election, And by Babe Ruth; Medium Long; Fantasy Baseball]

IN the 2016 World Series, two titans were at odds.
The Mocrats' best team and the Ublicans' best team both got nods ….
from their fans, and the reporters to ….battle for the prize.
It boiled down to one batter and one pitcher. That was no surprise.

[Each team had won three games. Only one game to go.
The winners of this seventh game would have Series Rings to show ….off.]

The batter was the most famous player …..for the Mocrat team.
But the Ublicans had a pitcher whose fast ball was...…oft' not seen.
The batter, Mighty Hilton, had many notches on her bat,
but Donump, a rookie pitcher, had a Super-Fastball which he often spat ….
out.

The bottom of the ninth, one runner on base; Ublicans leading five to four.
Both teams had struggled mightily. The crowd called out for MORE.
It was two outs so far that inning against the Mocrats team.
Hilton stepped into the batter's box, her ears spouting steam.

But rookie Donump was not fazed as he tousled with his blond mop.
He'd struck out the last two batters, and felt his luck ….could not stop.
Hilton was a pro and seemed unflappable; she held her bat with ease.
She knew her team would win if, from her bat, a homer she could squeeze.

The fans were noisy in the stands; it was a sold out game.
All eyes were on the two players now. Would one win Series fame?
The first pitch, a curveball, was low and outside. Hilton let it pass.
'Ball One! ' the plate umpired bellowed. Hilton stepped back onto the grass.

She eyed Donump, and for a moment she felt ….something unknown.
Could it be this young upstart would throw her off of her batting thrown? ?
Hilton stepped back into the box. Donump drew back and delivered.
'STRIKE ONE! ' she heard behind her. And something (in her) shivered.

'Ok' she told herself. 'Settle down girl. His smile will not last.'
But then the next pitch blazed past her. 'STRIKE TWO! ' ['That was TOO fast' ……
...……she thought.]
Could she be losing her edge? Could her years of fame be ending?
The rookie pitcher wound up once more; another pitch he was sending.

A slider this time, but she kept her cool. Inside. 'Ball TWO' was the call.
And he threw another curve. Hilton's eyes never left the ball.
She almost swing at it, but she didn't. 'BALL THREE! ' the ump yelled.
Hilton took a deep breath and thought: 'The Queen of Swat cannot be felled! '

It was a full count: 3 balls,2 strikes; a ball would do, a strike would not.
Not 'do' for Hilton or for the Mocrats or their fans. A homer she'd love to SWAT ……
......clear out of the ballpark.
Donump stepped off the mound, wiped his brow, nodded to the basemen.
Hilton stepped out of the box, tapped dust from her shoes, and THEN ……
….said to herself: 'Go for it! '

The crowd was undecided what to do. Some roared. Most just stared ….wide-eyed.
The rookie stepped back to the rubber strip on the mound. Teeth bared.
Hilton pointed her bat at right field, then stepped ………into the batter's box.
The next pitch, a FAST fastball, headed towards Hilton's socks.

A MIGHTY swing. A mighty swing indeed she made. 'STRIKE THREE. YOU'RE OUT! '
A hush fell over all the crowd. Most of the fans there were Mocrat fans.

Both teams and both players had played their best.
They'd supplied their public with months of the sporting zest.
BUT, today, under leaden skies, the Mocrat fans, with joy, did …….NOT shout.
Today, in Usville, a rookie won. Mighty Hilton had struck OUT!


(November 18,2016)

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2 - by Is It Poetry


) Wedged Is The Hip Splitter (

By my parting of these words,
these certain very words.
Herein because, I move it thus aside,
of that and when from you, it is I am.
Certain muscles wrapped around inside,
my fingers do.

The bush my hand upon is fire then ice.
Each leaf is free to move and feel,
it feels the face is red it's bulged blue veins.
And breath sucked in the fingers roam
beneath the moon, it floats.
Does she proper beg to whom he is?

Inside so deep those bending, elbows are.
Moans, she cries and.
Doing all of that and can't be stilled.
The beating heart when touched, feels as.
The splitting of the hips when quite, she is naught.
The chilly water vapors warm the swamp.

Blowing winds this foam up to my knees,
his legs are never straight.
The swirling of the tidal pools, her eddies are.
Index finger, thumbed along each hidden muscled length.
It pulls it in and doing nothing, pushed.

The nerves are pointed buds around the open door,
wheels and rings start ringing more, because.
And speaking words that never were by him, not said.

The light within your open mind it always thinking, read.
It heard them not from me and moving you they did.
Again, against between the river flowing never said.

I said to you, I am, I only can it rears the moon.
And the things that woman think they seek, some fear.

The fire my hand it burns the bush, the folded lips,
both rings I often come to know.
Lifting up my hands you dreaming part the clouds,
two elbows moving waves they always are.

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1 - by Della Perry


Pandora Lost Hope

A box lay on the floor
Opened only once
Now covered in dust.
Scratching came from within
No air, oxygen used, stale.
Diseased, sullen, dying,
Pandora opened the lid
Hope fluttered crazily,
Flapped into furniture,
Flew manically into the lights,
She watched its insane dance
For a time,
Before splatting the moth
Against the window pane.

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Bri's Note: this poem is based on a Greek myth (or WAS it a myth?) .
i suggest that Readers like me, a bit rusty on the story, review the story after reading Della's rendering. :)



Thanks for joining us in Section C for November 2016!

Bri :)