Rev Andy

Homeless

No place to call my own, no where to have a home
I live in the streets, dirt and filth beneath my feet
Occasionally into the shelters I can stay
Where if I kiss their Asses they let me stay
                     I AM HOMELESS

There is no trust in the dark and dreary streets
For over my shoulder I am always looking
Ever afraid of what danger might be lurking
Just living is not an option for me, only survival is the key
                     I AM HOMELESS

Into the streets come the fakes and the phonies
Social, religious and do goodiers too, all shower me with false love
Forcing me to give in to all their causes
Never hearing or understanding my anguished pleas
                     I AM HOMELESS

Those who are in the know, say I don't want to have a home
They say I like to roam and be free
That is not true, I do want a home and to be clean
To make a difference in a world so mean
                     I DO NOT WANT TO BE HOMELESS

But society is cruel, non-caring and elite
The world they have created, just can not be
Unless they make sure, they have people like me
In order to keep the world the way that it is, I cannot be freed
                     I MUST BE HOMELESS


Without Love, human society is in a very difficult state;
without Love, in the future we will face tremendous problems.
Love is the center of human life.


Rev Andy 4/5/05

Nicholas Alexander

The Lost Charm

We talk of lots and yet nothing comes to us
We walk a ways and come back and prays
it's gone to us
we talk in ways that make us stray but
its too long before her song lets him in
taste mocks the air that burdens a breath
make it sound heavy like crying when you sigh
and the loss of independence is soft
and unless you go to the post and empty envelopes
you are lost in falling stocks
your belief system
under shock, stops

Charles Frederickson

                               RED BAMBOO

Dense hard-walled thickets skyward bent
       Steadfast upright soldiers at attention
               Resolutely erect vertebrate spinal taproot
                       Hollow tubular echo bleeding green

       Plotting coordinates parallel lines merge
               Kindred soul mates clumped together
                       Reedy woodwinds shrill high-pitched flutes
                               Breezy swayback resounding moonlight serenade

               Exposed naked truths laid bare
                       Stalking lonely ghosts play hide-and-seek
                               Edible segmented worms timid creatures
                                       Peekaboo offshoots night crawler striptease

                                               Cylindrical ringed joints culm flexed
                                       Clenched fist brass knuckling underground
                               Entire grove singular tunnel plant
                       Antsy burrowers dig express subway

                                       Towering fronds holding up firmament
                               Interwoven fringe casting shadowy webs
                       Atlantean columns shrug shoulder blades
               Droopy nature terminal blossoms wilt

                               Elusive talc flowers flaccid cheeks
                       Six anthers fraying threadbare nap
               Seedy pollination sowing butterfly dismay
       Ephemeral fleetly existence spiritual regeneration

Dr. Charles Frederickson

Kiwi Writer in China

New Zealand-born writer Tzeming Mok says she is part of the "post-Amy Tan generation." For Tan, China was the faraway homeland, a memory. But for writers like Mok, "China is the reality, which no one can avoid."

Out of town guest: Tony Lewis-Jones

Drivetime


A day of not quite making connections.
An accident on the dual carriageway
And much attention given to the details.

On the radio at rush-hour
My automatic words spill out
Which simply mean ‘I need you. Call.’

Tony Lewis-Jones
January 2007

Bernard Kyle

WHAT'S POETRY
By
Bernard V. Kyle.
[C] 2007


One should review and never eschew,
The genre of poems that please,
Blank verse you may curse, or even worse,
Vers libre, gets you down on your knees.

But 'joy to the soul', is the ultimate goal,
With no need for any dilemma,
But through high and low, one really should know
Si metrum non habet -- non est poema