International Poet

Already Departed In the cold room we stepped Into the smell of warmed polish Well rubbed into the grain It was just as before Maturity did not grow new Eyes or smother truth with The trades material magic The silent music that creeped Out of the walls blended like magic Those sensible open-curtains That always draws attention from Saddened pity to empty dullness Swallowing lumps that pierce Tears at the thought Of entering the next room While gripping ones own fists Until white with surrounding Tear-shaped red marks How the moments of being Alone with nothing less Than two bodies without company Is it love, respect, pity Or just extreme curiosity That draws us here?

According To Darkness, Silence Dons A Halo The spinning enjoyment of dusk's communal culture, whose language of content spreads its contagious calmness through the winding metaphorical maze of regard for existence, the triangular connection of movements, spaced between etching fragrant gifts toward a purpose of its own meaningful motive. As in the movements of monarch butterflies, their orange wings with adorning black-white ornamental displays of transferable sections of moving, circular light. Antecedently to dawn's open mouth, darkness in the safe idiom hides below the highest halo, golden hanging light not yet born before the pushing of the orange slant, its genesis causes separation, shedding myriad of variant colors to escape into mesmerizing mannerisms.

Yuppie Dragons And Paper Mountains Climb mountains! Slay Dragons! That's what I did When I was a kid Now it's too much All this grownup stuff Amalgamations Corporations Business-like murder under the guise of merger Micro-second chattel battles waged on computer panels Flash before my eyes In a plate glass high-rise Now all my mountains are made of paper, and all my dragons wear ties

Quiet Tower On The Hill a bronze horse rears in a susurrus of familiar maples where stone giants sleep beneath the mossy patina of copper clad hats I can hear carillons of autumn past crisp as leafy zephyrs dancing

That Beauty The world boasts an ever changing face of garden Plants fall in and fall out of favours Set trends come and diminished fashions forgotten Preferences confuse taste with choices of colours Like an ever altering cinemascope In this mindscape of flux Some mysterious favourites remain a thin hope An instant release attracts keen emotion influx Amidst the numerous stars, moon may stand aloof To dwarf the crown Queen of roses’ simmering fun But when evening primrose invites for hard proof I dream only the daughter of light with fragrance of sun That beauty conquers with confidence and insight That beauty also makes night an easy delight

Some Things More Important Than Poetry Life,and people-work and family Commitments made to be honored- Births,deaths,funerals,pain- Witnessing at the passing of others Periods of necessary silences Times when all poems blow away Times when one must be lost - in a crowd or alone/on Internet or phone Times when to shop is of utmost importance! Eating,drinking,sleeping,dreaming Whole lives when nothing particularly happens! Gaps between-travelling.Growing into rituals-Reading,listening,absorbing Praying,meditating,waiting Every participle participant particle Every authenticated distancing mechanism Poetry must wait at the intersection of thoughts and feelings and feed upon the scraps again.

Why did I love and now hate Photojournalism? Always looking back at old snapshots, obsolete, deja vu, caduco, Alter hut. no more the big strugle is there, always standing in front of soon-to-be-shot so-called heroes one is caught in a ring, not unlike Prostitution Which most of the press is more and more becoming back to Stanley and Livingston when it took 2 months for the news to filter out of Africa.

Yperite late at night a mist fills the valley. without knowing it suffocates like a dark power. on the fields our dead bodies and under the grass a brown soil © Ekphrastic poetry (poem + painting) by Jan Theuninck

Memory Is Being Blurred Memory is being blurred. Images are getting dim. I shall forget everything oneday. Everything,everything,everything. I don't want to. But,I'll. New life has so many challenges. Daily new adventures. Daily new behavioural patterns. The present putting the glorious past behind. Bad coin drives the good coin out of use. New patterns,new associates. Responsibility destroying emotion. I am weeping. I want to come back. But how? I can't. I can't. I can't.

An Extra Death For every breath is an extra death For every spice of life taken is another spicy death given For every celebration begat an unborn mourning For every brighter morning lies a darken moaning What joyful tears fall in my shadow of fears? When does my trailer of labour and stress Eventually bore unclaimed bountiful years Why does untold relief come in her brighter colour of deceit? That our unborn years would embarrass us trouble free For every birthday that is here Our deathbeds are near How joyful how sad Whether fat, thin or black White, bad, thirtyfive or ninety five Our every breath sucks our extra life Vanity just vanity, ignore not this pathetic tale Like you ignore you nagging husband or wife.

Penmanship Blues As we consider all we've lost and all we've gained we must recall the cost and pay the debt to whom it had concerned, to whom we owe to those whose soul was earned, and those who stole we know those who convene and dream of life the same as those with fizzled days and burning nights we ask ourselves, tonight a sonnet? perhaps a verse as life proceeds, tonight a blessing? perhaps a curse we all agree what it may be it's certainly avoiding lies it's what we hear when voices lie it's what to do when tongues are tied and quickly we propel to dark even if small, we'll leave a mark we will proceed to write down life even if just by scraps of light.

The Anchor's Song I am the anchor No one touches the depths as I do. Only the waves and water moss know the beauty of my fall. I don't reveal my secrets except to the drowned I don't say goodbye except to the migrating fish. I chose the sea that my echo would not be lost as I hit the bottom. I chose the sea that I may not forget the water as I head for the ground I chose the sea to camouflage my tears with water that no one may see them. I'm the anchor falling freely in countries with no name sea shells and oysters only are my friends and everything hard wrapped in light I was born like you were born from steel, dust, and gold I will die like you will die but the ground will not forget me easily not as long as it is filled with all these scratches that my traversal creates. Translated by Nathalie Khankan Jamal Jumá: Member of World Poets Society (W.P.S.). Bio: An Iraqi poet, born in Baghdad and received his academic education in Copenhagen, where he has lived since 1...