Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 30, 2014

‘To be Young Again’~by Mary Cecil



‘To be Young Again’

Oh! to be young again
For days of every expectation,
The world waiting,
And every day a sweet anticipation

To fly a kite and race in the sand
To catch the wind and run free,
To trust in life and people too,
To live in the moment and simply be

All the dancing and music too
Fun and games in every day,
Thoughtless ,careless moments,
Dreams to build, life’s a play

To find your ‘one’
The joyful quest,
Those sweet nothings
And all the rest

Life unhindered
Optimism abounding,
Days of sweet singing happiness,
Now in echoes resounding

Mary Cecil

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 30, 2014

Pros and Cons

Originally posted on Poesy plus Polemics:

Illustration from

Illustration from

When a protean protégée procreates with a prodigal prodigy,
Will they produce propitious proficuous progeny?


Will they conceive conceited connivers content
With concomitant conquest, control and contrived contretemps.

View original

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 30, 2014

Tabula Rasa

Originally posted on Poesy plus Polemics:

(originally posted here April 2013)

Writer's Block Illustration from

Writer’s Block
Illustration from

what do I do with

unbearable imminence

certain that some unknown something

will soon spring to mind

when my insolent muse

remains lazy with sleep

sprawling nice as you please

on white sheets of my unmade ideas

unresponsive to prodding

unheeding of all implorations

blind to the easting aura of dawn

deaf to the noise of impatience

ungrateful and willful

as if she could live long

without me

View original

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 30, 2014

First Modern Man

Originally posted on Poesy plus Polemics:

(originally posted here May 2013)

Niccolo Machiavelli 1469-1527 Italian Political Theorist Portrait by Santo DiTito

Niccolo Machiavelli 1469-1527
Italian Political Theorist
Portrait by Santo DiTito

trapped in temporal interstice

of Florentine upheaval

between via antiqua and via moderna

between cold tradition and warm innovation

he sought which effectual truths

underpinned acquisition of power

he taught of the cruel morality

animating statecraft of monarchy

but his pamphleteered

overweening assertions

in Il Principe, which everyone reads,

attracted erroneous prominence

in subsequent cultural history

entirely missing his irony

left ignored is his seminal tome

the Discorsi, which no one has read,

revealing his erudite prescience

in sketching firm framework

for future-built, perfect-built

ideal perpetual

constitutional republics

including our own

View original

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 30, 2014


Originally posted on Poesy plus Polemics:

"Petrichor" Photo by Amy Pond From

Photo by Amy Pond

comes a drizzle in drought
eager hearts sniff the air
pungent promises slicken
brick walkways but not
enough rain for a surefooted
cleansing each raindrop
a bomblet exploding small
dust clouds that rise to the
nose printing ever more
frustrating memories onto
the mind filled already with
too many aspects of thirst
disappointment the natural
state formed by sieging sere
spiritual dry spells who
wither and desiccate dreams

View original

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 30, 2014


Originally posted on ann johnson-murphree:

I have enough memories from the past

to last me for the rest of my life. My

benevolent memory will not bury them

from which they were born.

A small country church, a chorus of

crows; the splashing sounds of the

brook running through the Birch trees.

The wind caressing the colossal row

of Oaks in the field.

Death road away from the weathered

house of worship, followed by black

feathered angels. No longer will the

water beneath the Birch cool, nor will

the wind surrounding the Oaks embrace

The rocker on the porch is stilled, no hand

waves goodbye. In a cobwebbed corner of

the room, tattered sun struck curtains dance

in the nearby mirror. Childhood is dead.


View original

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 29, 2014

Vote for Christmas.~by Tom Higgins



Vote for Christmas.

The turkeys all voted for Christmas,
The farmer persuaded them to.
He said it was in their best interests
And that’s what they needed to do.

They all had no memory of any
Christmas that had gone before,
They all hatched with no knowledge
Of what they were really born for.

The farmer told them stories
He fed them the usual lies
They could never see through them
As they only saw through their eyes.

They never understood that
His interests were purely selfish
And by getting them to vote for Christmas,
He really was taking the pish.

So in the weeks leading up to Christmas,
He kept on spinning the yarns
It happened all over the country,
On most of the poultry farms.

The turkeys they just ate and drank
And kept putting on the weight,
Each one of them oblivious
To their ignominious fate.

Tom Higgins 29/07/2014

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 29, 2014

LOTUS’ DREAMS~by Saroj Padhi




You are biting your nails
as I gaze at the startled stars of your eyes
that seem to measure the depth of my love
in the hollows of my shallow body—

aching with the miseries of drought and flood
in the land of my roots, in the flow of my famished blood .

You scratch the earth beneath your feet too
with your toes painted in the scarlet pain of my heart
that has been longing for you
since the dawn of the first sun in my life
with the promise of a salvation in your setting streaks

How much I long to be the pink flesh
under your tooth and nail
biting me slowly into an oblivion of sorts
before scratching away the cover of illusion
from my face
with the touch of your feet
on the wet ground of my unconscious self
and sending my soul into a trance
in the chill of your periodic silence !

comp. n .copyright : saroj k. padhi 30/07/14

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 29, 2014

A thought for a poet~by Wesley Rode



A thought for a poet

Now I catch an idea
perhaps one of love or fear
In my mind I see it clear,

I hear and smell
even feel fires of hell,
All is indeed amplified
the universe reach deep inside my mind
Words are not bound by time,

I am this blank page,
this is where I create,
I control minds
I can dish out smiles or make it rain on teary eyes
Strings are attached to each word I write

A mortal man, a vissionary
to some a missionary,
I paint a picture with resolution
for all to find a silution,

I own these words
joy and hurt,
The pen is mightier then swords
It’s here where I fight wars

©Wesley Charlton Rode. All rights reserved

Posted by: Ron DuBour | July 29, 2014





There was a peace plan,
And those in procession
Each and every man,
Was a man of profession
Doing all that they can,
To avoid any recession
With each rising sun,
the talks came into session
With drinks, laughs and fun,
Peace talks not succession
Each carried a pen not gun,
as their only possession
Then things took a turn
that collapsed the intercession
The peace my people yearn
and hope to see in progression
Took a swift about-turn,
what they saw was retrogression
Everything started to burn,
and fall in regression

With the talks overrun,
there was fear of invasion
It spread to everyone,
triggering chaos and confusion
Nothing could be done
to bring some diffusion
Like father like son,
all boiling with tension
There was nowhere to run
no points of evasion
Now it can’t be undone!
The rape and death from the armed intrusion
All we could earn
was loss and pain that came in profusion
The war had begun,
and in the heat of aggression

From whom else will we learn?
From what else must we learn?
From where else will we learn?
And how else will we learn?

By Bernard owor

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