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Monday, November 28, 2011

ED WOODS


Week One

my first week
in Canada
much to learn
adjustments to make
culture shock
wonderment of changes

mall retreat
friends arrive
one by one
misty fragrance
of Asian Green Tea

we bask in our dialect
I feel better
in warm laughter

I look forward
to week two

(c)Ed Woods

Sunday, November 27, 2011

WILMA SEVILLE

http://howyahdoon.blogspot.com/2011/11/gift-short-story-republished-with.htm

Please click on this link above to read my latest published story.

The original story won first prize in Perspectives Magazine December 2010.  It has since  been revised and new details added.

To give a quick review, it is the story of a returning Canadian soldier from Afghanistan and his family, particularly of his Oma (German for Gran or Grannie).  It is told from the perspective of the gift.

Hope you enjoy it.



ED WOODS


Donations

to meet human obligations
a portion of income
is gifted to charities

with envelope in hand
at the postal box
a scene catches my eye

in fixated stare
across the street
I survey the line up
at my chosen charity
a local Food Bank

designer dressed people
from trendy sideways cap
down to signature soles
cigarette in one hand
logo coffee in the other

they jostle both
to cope with the dilemma
to talk on a cell phone
and scratch off a lottery ticket
until doors open wide
to fill their bags tight

reflected from a window
behind my blue collar soul
is letter of good intentions
about to be released
to cover their lifestyle

this image pauses
then peeled back the stamp
and ripped up the envelope

a quick reflected nod
and then it’s off
to the same logo shop
for a beverage to sip
in contentment of change
enroute home



CopyrightEd Woods(C)2011

Saturday, November 26, 2011

ASMA WARSI


.............................................................
Exploit No More!

The fresh breeze of Spring
from the deserts of Arabia
traveling across continents,   
reaching the Western shores.

Claiming the leadership
giving the eternal message
that inside our skin, light or dark
we are one, we are human.

From Arab Spring to Occupy Movement
from coast to coast, resonates
the universal demand for human dignity
and need for mutual respect.

Young and old, men and women
same voice, same slogans, same purpose:
our need -  freedom and justice.
count us in, exploit no more.
we are the ninety-nine per cent.

Asma Warsi © 2011

Thursday, November 24, 2011

JEFF SEFFINGA



A PSALM OF PRAISE 

Praise Him among all created things, for His name is holy;
Praise His name with deafening music, with murmurs in every corner.

Let the acorn on the twisted oak sing of His faithfulness,
The wilting potted chrysanthemum proclaim His power.

Among shoes in the closet His name shall be honored,
Blue jeans and pantyhose are dumfounded by His glory.

Hear His name in the passing wail of police car sirens,
A jet engine’s scream, a dump truck’s broken muffler.

He reveals Himself in the scent of day lilies in the garden,
The disposable diapers tossed in the garbage profess His name.

Endangered whales sing of Him in the dark ocean’s chambers,
Children playing ball hockey echo His care in the side streets.


All things resound with His authority and His eminence.
Praise Him.


Jeff Seffinga

Saturday, November 19, 2011

ASMA WARSI


At Home in Makkah
Walking by myself,
In the streets of Makkah,
Among thousands of people,
Of different race, colour,
Speaking different languages.

But we were not strangers,
We knew each other.
A kind smile,
A friendly glance,
Somehow we were connected.

The unique brotherhood,
And sisterhood of Islam,
We were siblings to each other,
Truthful and genuine,
Helping, caring.

As if I was in my hometown,
Among my people,
I had known them from ages,
They were my family.
I was one of them.
I was so at home!!!
Asma Warsi ©

Originally published in The Ambition Newspaper November 2011.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

DAVID HASKINS - Winner of Individual Poem Award at the Literary Awards


Urban Fox


In the filtered light from a street lamp
at the end of a cobbled alley
she hunches down to watch me
and seeing I mean her no harm
slinks to the farthest corner
her stealth drenched in shadow.

Long ago the city fortress
called us from the starved land.
Now it brings the wild among us,
miles from forest, field and brook,
this ragged waif plagued with mange,
opportunist fallen from grace.

A disenfranchised citizen-savage
scavenger of human refuse,
she prowls the markets of south London
to feed her mewling kits, their den
warmed with hair she pulled from her skin.

She shows no pride in owning the night -
like a beleaguered spy come in from the cold
or some old drunk nestled under cardboard -
depending on no one’s kindness,
as fearless as the rats she beds down with
and, if she has to, eats.

I want her to be the fox the prince’s
horse and hound and redcoat riders
hunt around my Tiffany shade,
never run to ground or torn apart
when blood rises in the teeth of dogs.

Or the glass-eyed fox my late aunt draped
around her neck at Sunday service,
the perfect tail curved down one shoulder,
head and front paws down the other,
watching me reach up to touch
the soft seductive fur without
interrupting her solemn prayers.

I don’t belong in this survivor’s street;
for now she knows she has the upper hand.
One day she’ll chew her black boot off
to free her from a leg hold trap
and all her cunning will bleed out slow
the wild, waning in her slit eyes
the mysterious sisterhood of fox.

Originally published in The Saving Bannister 25, published by the Canadian Authors Association, Niagara.


Editor's note:  Congratulations David for winning the Individual Poem category at the Hamilton Arts Council's Annual Literary Awards Gala!  Well done!

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

CONRAD DI DIODATO



In St. James park


The insupportables of life, and suns in a
stand-off with dust,

unleash the crows on them—just two crows!—
The dark wing, as it's mean
and stand-offish, snagged
and sanded in the same wind and the sun,
 is upon them

Mohawks compete with locals
for some fear, too
Do they mean to join us, in the parks?



Wind and the suns
mean no harm, not with all the tents & the needles
in a row; not when sex cathects a church and compels a lot
    of Love
       Exaction
       Electricity

They mock the AbbĂ© who offers donuts, or the greying
 politico with fairish jaw

 Girls isolated lie sprawled in yurts
 eating out of a can,
 cold-looking

What's it a question of anyways, money, sex, or some signs
  without organs?

Nothing's heavy-handed here! They repeat daily—
  Look!   just
             isolated
             yurts,
             locals,
             girls, cold-bitten



copyright(C)Conrad DiDiodato2011

Saturday, November 5, 2011

WILMA SEVILLE


The Bruce Trail


Long ago, seeds were sown
by capricious winds
landing on fertile earth
along Niagara Escarpment

Deciduous trees stand
tall, slender, reaching up
to sunlit heavens above
branches nearly bare

Crunchy leaves line pathway
footsteps pressing them into earth
squirrels scurry to and fro
winter time – on its way

Patches of sunlight poke through
outdoor cathedral hush
feelings of peace
birds sing to their Creator alone

Leaves fall with each wind gust
adding to coloured carpet
footsteps of lone person
walk along the Bruce Trail

Man, in all his wisdom
cannot outdo art of God
whose love for man is shown
by beauty such as this.


©WilmaSeville2008     Showcased at Dundas Art Walk 2008