Divine December

Madonna del Prato

Madonna of the Meadow

A painting by Giovanni Bellini










Madonna, Madonna!

Why are you worshipping

With your folded hands

Your own child in your lap?


You don’t know at this stage

Your child is divine, earthly

Or a child of a devil!


All children when they are born

Are divine to their mothers!

They know well a child comes from God

And if they do well in their life

They become god as well!


Mine I know for sure is a son of God

Because an angel has told me so!


Sasha Dee

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A young girl, later on called Virgin Mary

Lately saw in her dreams unexplainables

And heard voices; then she saw him manifesting

From the thin air, the winged archangel Gabriel

Who, told her that she was going to have a

Virgin Birth, Son of God will be born to her


She was perplexed and did not know

If the message was assuring or reasonable

Or a store of stormy weather ahead!


Could she hold down her sanity,

When her life was meddled by the Divinity?


Where would she go?

To whom she could tell her plight of

What she had seen and heard?

Are the holes showing in the firm firmament?

Or is there need of the needlepoint

For the heaven’s divine but torn garment?

Is the Prince of Peace,

Is the harbinger of War as well?

Does the Tranquillity

Come with the Turmoil?


It was too much for her

Young mind to cope with

She swooned but got up

And forgot it until later years

When events took to the end

That realized her fears.




Brian Ring


I suddenly find myself in the midst of the cold, mean city.

I had no cash – I’d been conned out of it.

I have nowhere to go to, for even the half-heated crypt

Of the church I once frequented is barred against me.                                                           Try Hauptbahnhof but the railway police would move me on.

Even if the Police station is warm in its cell –

I would have had to commit a veritable felony-

Breaking window glass would not do any more.

So I keep on walking – walking through the dark, dank alleys, lanes and streets.

Perhaps if I were a girl I’d get a room with someone somehow.

But that’s a divisive sexist remark – have they really got it that good?

Anyway its ageist against me too-

The O.A.P.Hostel only opens on a Friday night.

I’ll just have to WAIT,

And now there’s this wretched snow falling after midnight in midwinter.

I don’t really need a bed for the night – a warm chair would do.

Try out-patients? Try a hotel foyer? Try a police-station reception?

No way – too boring – be moved on anyway?

After all what do you expect from Free Germany?

I don’t want to die from frost bite.

Why don’t I just wrap up?


Anyway I seem to have lost the plot

Please don’t rip up the note paper on which this ‘poem’ is written , man.

The club I could have gone to is for members only.

And they only accept cash which I don’t have anyway.

Besides who’d have an outsider like me?

And if I became one, would I really want to become one?


Heaven knows what the Heaven is

Sam Daniel


    Heaven, heaven, heaven

    After all what is the heaven?

    Heaven knows what the heaven is!

    Nobody really knows

    What’s it, what’s its location

    What’s it situation, and dominion?

Nobody has come back from it

And told us or written down about it


Heaven to different persons is different

Heaven in different culture and religion is different

It is a differing matter far different

Like the sky from the eart

But it is accordingly some  something nice and happy






From tribal world of the remote wilderness

To the civilized world of all mod and cons

Each has their different heaven of happiness


But what gets me down is the idea of heaven

That some religions awards women as heaven

For men for spreading the message of the religion

Image result for seductive filmy  women

Image result for seductive filmy  women


But I think that there should be a doppelganger culture

In which women are awarded men as heaven;

Image result for seductive celeb men

And then they refuse them on the ground that on earth

Those very men created hell out of their heaven!


La Nasscita Venere

Birth of Venus

A painting by Sandro Botticelli


iBirth of Mary







Sandro Botticelli you wicked old artist!

You know how to put spell on us

And make women very beautiful

Vivacious, seductive to the point of porno


Here Venus is born; you painted

Out of a pearl, out of the ocean

Like a mother of pearl lighted

Within and without

By her own light

Within and without


All her charm hid and reveal

Reveal the woman’s beauty

Of the humanity for the humanity

And our Raison d’être


November Spectre

Conference with Ghosts


Howard Luke

Yesterday I was insane and

Connected to the Ether

Holding conferences with ghosts

And astral Gods

Talking non-stop but without a microphone

Performing a question and answer session

For an unseen audience

In a room in a block of flats

Yesterday I was high

Manically walking from home to palace

Laughing hysterically at an unheard joke

Never eating just moving

Talking to the spirits as I walked

Yesterday I was happy

Today I am numb

and worrying the carcass of an old song



Brian Ring


There they go .. Spectres in the night sky!

Shimmering and shining amidst the pristine stars,

Leering and leaping lights in the nocturnal ether

Peering at these we fancy that these ghastly residues

Are either figments of our imagination or UFO’s

Somehow really up there

What else can explain those eery entities?

In the mind’s eye or really in the dark night firmament

I don’t believe in any ghosts myself,

But sometimes I discern strange visions up there.

And cannot imagine what on Earth they might be

But that just not it; they are not here in Earth,

But in an aethereal, empyrean, ecstatic realm,

A panoply of weird luminescent superlunaries.

What would have convinced me that they

Were indeed ghosts, would be if they spoke or uttered sound—

But, no! Dim, dumb and drearily quiet they just seem.

But they are not seemly –merely spectral sparks or somesuch.

And at night they are distinguished from stars –

Because, amazingly, they whizz about like

Effervescent physical presences in a patchwork quilt of astral bodies.

The eerie science of the night skies shows me,

There is far more in the heavens than can be

Seen at first glance – and yet I.m not even

Looking through a telescope at the time,

But just seeing things –Are they not there then?

Yes, I’m dreaming it all

There really are no ghosts in the sky’

On earth, or underneath it.



Daring Discourse of Odysseus

Sasha Dee


Let your thousand tongues lollop, roar,

Rumble, hiss, and frighten us to death, Death:


Let the stars, brittle as glass,

Crack, crash and crush into pieces

Falling like dark dousing, dying fireworks:


Let the storms, hurricanes, tempests, tornadoes,

Typhoons, Cyclones, and whirlwinds rise and arise

The waves of mountains of oceans of waters:

Let the angles of the earth tremble and tilt.


Let the demons of hell, land on the seven seas,

Dance wicked, wearing the sculls in the festoons,

Swinging swords, flashing cutlasses all around

Quaking and shaking the roots of the earth and the layers of heaven:


Let the Satan throw all his burning thunderbolts

And fell the fulcrum of the universe, far, near and beyond

Unhinging the gates of heaven, the very seat of Jupiter

And let the darkness light the darkening shooting stars:


Comrades, friends, brave sailors don’t drown your hearts.

We are the riders on the back of devil, drunk and dead insane.

Keep your eyes nailed on the realms of gold and diamonds

Soon the spectres will die down, spent force, winded and panting:


One who dares, wins; we dare,

We win the un-winnable war.

Every long darkened night dissolves

Into the thousand brilliant suns,


Sailors, soldiers, noble men beware!

If we give up now and like the wet dogs

Putting our tails in between our hind legs,

Crawl back sneakily to our cities;

We are dead and more than just dead:


Our cowardice will spread,

Down the centuries, the evil will proliferate

And the long wakes and waitings

Of Penelopes of all around the world will prostitute.

They will breed bastards and barren culture!

Sailors, soldiers, friends never fear the vultures

Of death, those who are born destined to die.

It is borne with us, so fight on, face the music!




Horror Nightmare

Sam Daniel


Halloween night and horror

Thickened, sickened the bleak nights,

With children and adults

Wandering with masks and costumes

That would stand hair at the end

Of the Satan’s tail and devils beard


The cinemas and home televisions,

Internets, DVDs 3Ds and others

Had a festival of bloodbath

With endless movies of Halloween

Dracula, Vampires and Body Snatcher themes


My mind started working up night and day

Horror images in my sleep and daytime dozing


In a frozen fear struggle I woke up

To find my dog turned into a Dracula

Got me by my throat with its fangs

Deep down in the back of my neck

Lapsing up my jets of blood

With a mountain of struggle I threw away

The wretched animal that dashed against the wall


But then I woke up from that nightmare

And I found that I threw away my toy

Teddy bear that I held for the comfort

Against my chest and realised that

I never had a dog, all in my life!



The Mysterious Faceless Voice

Samantha Avon


When they woke up

They saw each other

One said,” I’m a stranger in Paradise”

The other one said, “I’m a danger in the Paradise.”

And then they heard

A domineering voice

You’re man and wife

They wondered

Who is man and who is wife?

And the voice said

You will soon find it

Adam! When I put you to sleep

I made a delicate surgery on you

I took a rib bone out from you

And made Eve out of it for you


They still were confused who was Adam

And who was Eve?


They looked at each other

And checked each other’s rib

They were all right


They asked a passing creeping

Elongated animal if he knew the fact

He just hissed and said eat that fruit

And you’ll know the truth



Once more they looked at each other

One said to the other you’ve got that

Bone hanging there down under

So I’m the one who is Adam whose

Bone is missing down under


Ever since that strange voice

Did not make it clear whose bone was

Missing, the world has been in confusion

And they always doubt that mysterious faceless voice



House of Wax

Leroy Lachman


In 1953 I was just a naiveté boy who

Grew up on a steady diet of the American comics,

Like Captain America and Marvels, Terrors,

Adventure stories and detective pulps,

Horror magazines and American Serials


Like Jerry Lewis in the film “Artists and Models”

I would wake up in the night and would hold my brother’s

Arms or neck and yell, “Stop thief, stop thief!”

Poor my brother would cry and say “No I’m your brother!”


Then they announced the horror film at the Eros

“House of Wax” and challenged that if you do not

Come out of the Theatre sweating

We’ll give you your money back.

We young ones took the challenge and lost

We came out dripping wet in our pants.


Days after seeing that film I saw myself helpless in the sleeps

Feeling that I was being in the cast-mould and a wicked man

Was pouring hot melted wax around me and rolling with laughter

And later in the horror museum I was looking at the visitors

But they did not understand that I was alive but couldn’t talk!





October Revolution

Climb Every Mountain



Sam Daniel

Climb Ev’ry Mountain

And he certainly did it

Sitting on the top of the peak

Breathing deeply and looking around

Looking down at the ground

He felt he did very well

Sitting on the top

Was very easy now……







But how long can he sit there?

Without being knocked down

Off his perch of self satisfaction

Of his certainty, of his security,

Of his faith, of his conviction

imageOn the top






Would someone be coming up

Climbing up Ev’ry Mountain

Like him, like him, like him

Who went though all nooks and every corner

Every cricks and cracks, dangerous curves

Treacherous hairpin bends and twists

Falling rocks, slippery slopes

Fallen from the top








Climbing Ev’ry Mountain is a cinch

But staying on the top is a Herculean task

The real fear is the fear it self

The fear of another Alexander


Arms in Arms

Sasha Dee


Arms in Arms-01









Arms in arms

Armed with armies and ammo

With public support

They went into WW1


war to start







When the battle hardly won,

The trenches hardly filled,

And the poppies had time to grow red


They celebrated with hue and cry

“We won, we won, we won!”







With pretended euphoria

They rushed in like fools and came home

Like wild football players

They celebrated in procession

In streets and squares

Bloated about the their winning

And let the hatred grew in losers

Endangering the world peace

By amassing weapons of mass destruction

Piling up nukes and hydrogen and napalms


Soon the WWII and they won again

And then Korean, and followed by Vietnam

And then piled up Afghan and Iraq

Like the rolling waves of the Tsunami

Now there is hardly breathing time

There are explosions big and small

Even in the air, on the railways

On the oceans and on the lands


Arm in arm, shoulder to shoulder

Man’s intellect has run out

And we are back to barbarism

For their euphoric, instinctive

Undiplomatic, unwise actions

Clumsy, unapt, wasteful and expensive

Dare and wins we are now become

Dead men walking alive



Words & Politics

Sarah Serra

In the beginning

There was Man

And then the Man found a Word

When he met another man


Between them then they found

Many words

Later on they were construed

As Politics



Life Is A Bath Tub

Howard Luke

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Two Schizophrenics laughing at TV

In a ward above the Multitude

In a hospital Everlasting almost near

The beginning.

Turn the tap

At the genesis at the start of the program

They felt dirty

But life is a bath tub

Scrubbing, washing, cleaning

Dosing those memories

Removing all psychosis

Life is a bath tub

Surrounded by candles

Warm at the start

But slowly getting colder

As you get older

Life is a bath tub


Southbank after the WWII

Brian Ring







There is now a new-found road,

Or rather a pathway, for it has

No cars – it has no special name,

But is becoming known as “South Bank”

Which is, so called because

It is now found on the South Side

Of London, England’s River Thames

It has lost the plot in the not

That recent past, when,

Derelict warehouses, slum-like factories,

And general Dickensian decay,

Had spread to make the whole

Place moribund and grotesque,

But look at it now !

See how, having fallen into grief,

It has refound itself and surpassed

Even its erstwhile Elizabethan days

When theatres, gaming houses and taverns,

Lining those places already world-famous

Nowadays to see people in twos or more—

Be they tourist, foreigner, provincial or suburbanite alike,

Promenading, sauntering and cavorting

Along the new south bank-


All the way from St. Thomas’ to Guy’s –two world famous hospitals

Which now have immediate pedestrian access to the river front








September 2015 Sings Differing Tunes

All the Leaves are Brown

Brian Ring

Brian Ring

I’m gathering leaves from the fields.

And woods and lanes,

I clear them all up into little piles,

And try to make compost for the new season,

Harvesting these blades for latter

Most of the leaves are brown now,

As we’re about due for the autumn chill.

That meant gathering in before the winter decimates.

Yes, all the greenery’s gone brown,

And now are the days declining fast,

And I’ve far to go with little time.

The carts are filling up,

And I must lash the horses to make up piles,

In places hard to find.

With cartloads more in the offing,

Digging, scooping, delving and shifting,

Tedious work this, even for us labourers,

Gathering the fruits of earth before they wither,

And hither and thither we dig and delve,

Not knowing why we do all this

In the bigger scheme of things.

Why are we messing about with leaves,

These blessed blades we sweep away

And stack away for new mown hay.

All I know is that the leaves have browned,

Not to what use are they even in the haystacks.

But continue I must to work on hard.

Hard work is what we labourers are for,

Not to argue the merits of the hour.




Howard Luke

 I am a soul clothed in a

Slowly decaying unique carcass

Drifting 1000 metres between

Birth and Death


Waiting for meaning for purpose

For euphoria for that leap into solid abstraction

I am a soul longing for definition and for

Life to take hold for more, more and more

Looking searching for my Id

Dominated by my super ego the family

Plastic surgery of the mind body and soul

Rolls of cobwebs and monthly injections

A feast for a shape changer

What’s left is a stranger


Emilia Lanier the Alpha Feminist

Samantha Simon

Emilia, Emilia, the Dark Lady of the Sonnets
One time dear “incuba” the bed

Lanier Bed

On which Elizabethan men lied freely

What poems you wrote?

That even Shakespeare was upset

One of your many lovers, who

Angrily used foul language

In one of the Sonnets he wrote

And you made that famous jousting

Only survived as those Elizabethan

Destroyed your poetry-

“Evil disposed men who- forgetting

That they were born of women,

Nourished of women and that

If it were not by means of women

They would be quiet extinguished and,

Out of the world, a final end of them all!!”

“Bravo” ” Bravo” and thrice “Bravo” for you.

Those Elizabethan might have destroyed

Your poems and shame on Shakespeare

But not your mighty spirit! You are Immortal!

Note: Emilia Lanier born 1570 and died in 1654. She achieved respect in the court of Elizabeth I. She wrote poems to challenge Shakespeare’s Sonnets. They were supposedly very feminist in attack that Elizabethan publishers were told to destroy her manuscript. In the Sonnets of Shakespeare numbering 127 to 154 sonnets are addressed to the “Dark Lady” believed to be Emilia Lanier where she has been mentioned by the bard as – “my female evil” and “my bad angel”.


A Horse, a Horse or a Paint-brush

Sasha Dee

The two Queens of England

Rule the Empire they inherited

And enhanced and made popular

And made themselves popular

On which once the sun never set

But while Elizabeth ruled

The Empire dissolved

Faster than a flower that

Bloomed in the morning

And wilted in the evening

Victoria rode her horse rarely

But settled for a paintbrush

Princess Louise pinted by Queen Victoria

(Painting done by the Queen Victoria)

And played with colours and shapes

And left many paintings for us to see

While Elizabeth did more sittings

On her horses and watched races

Spent more time in stables and

Eventually looked like a horsey woman

As good as her daughter Anne

She also did more sittings

For the artists doing her portraits

And hardly used her paint-box

But left a gallery full of paintings

Recording her passing images

Two Queens of England

One with a paint-box

The other on a horse back

Queen II

Both are the layers of time

In the layers of paintbrush!


The Dolls’ House

Dolls House

Sally Thomas

A little girl

Always nagged

To have her a Dolls’ House

Or a Wendy House

For her to play

Her mother smoked

Cigarettes after cigarettes

And talked to her neighbour

Over the fence

And when she was on shopping

She talked on her mobile

She had not time

For the needs of her little girl

Her father was always

In or out of the pub

Or when he was in

He watched the repeats

Of the Football matches

He had no time

For the needs of his little girl

Her older brother

Saved his pocket money

And bought a broken worn out

Dolls’ House from a charity shop

The girl was soul-happy

And played with it in the

Clattered rear garden

She had imaginary father and mummy

Her imaginary sister she always wanted

But her real brother as the real character

In her play morning, noon and evening

But her parents got annoyed with her play

And yelled her to stop her playing

Then she prayed and wished

That her parents should be dolls

In her Dolls’ House and lo it happened


Her parents turned into rag dolls

In her Dolls’ House

Assortment for August 2015

The Dove of Love

Brian Ring


There is peace in the sign of the dove,

But the thing about which to talk,

Is actually the aggressive hawk.

So what does one choose, hawk or dove?

One is for peace, t’other war;

They divide the military leadership

Into each of these.

Those that want war are hawks,

Those that deride it are doves .

Which do you choose?

The hawks are ruled by Mars;

The doves by Venus.

Which will out in the end?

Love or Hatred?

Most would rather be lovey-dovey!

So do you choose love and dove or hate and hawk?

If we could all vote on this, the people would have long since outlawed war!

Is peace all lovey-dovey for the wimps or is it noble

To fight for the right?

Perhaps, you think, the best is in between.

But, even so, who consciously wants to do even for a just cause.

Again the choice is simple; the answer complex.

The love of war is not ipso facto wrong in itself always and categorically.

But hope in death-less conflict,

Springs eternal from the human breast-

For death itself is apparently not the end,

And on such an upbeat note

Should all talk of peace and war rest.



Life Follows Art

Howard Luke


A Black beetle crawls

Up a willow bark

Of a dog in unison

With a quiz show host

Sits down for dinner

Life is comic book reality

Tv confuses me.

I pull back, back further

Within and am left without

Program schedules run my


Pictures, visual images

Crowd my mind projecting

On the retina to the optic nerve

Soap opera dialogue tumbles

In company or alone

Life follows art





Sasha Dee

 Tangerin Sky

Tangerine sky when you’re high

Away from all regimentations of life

And the genie in the hubble-bubble

Talks sweet and your forget the strife

Taking the bite of the tangerine syrupy

You walk down the Casaba of Tangier

And see the world out of the fairy books

And jolly walk lazily seeing all corner and nooks

You arrive on the sandy seashore

With freshly cut coconut sipping the sap

Laced with local heady spices and opium

You’re “Lucy in the sky” diamond eyes

You’re cool in the sea-cool breeze

And lying on your back not thinking of England

All you want to see and enjoy the Tangerine sky

Hear the heavenly music buzzing around

Then all you hear is a sudden spray of bullets thud

And there everywhere the pools of Tangerine blood!




A Meow and a Meow from the Missing Cat

Samantha Simon



I am that missing cat

As horded on all the trees

By a lady with missing screw

Appealing to all cat lovers

And cat haters and cat-allergists

That I am missing and how she is missing me

But frankly guys I do not miss her

Nor her stacks of “Sheba” tins

Or velvety soft pillows

In fact I hate her molly cuddling

Scratching my neck and tail

And touching my crown jewels

And all the saliva dripping baby talk

I am a cat a born free, nocturnal

Hunter that belongs to the big cat family

I do not like all that readymade food

And even the pseudo caviar goods

I am happy to play and kill at night

Those night creatures, mice and rats

Tasty yummy, yummy fresh bits

Along with the company of other cats

Oh those lovely sing song of meows

That put shame to the Welsh miners’ gala

Oh, those hissing and fussing and chase

Oh, those long wailings like the baby’s cries

And that awful self –indulgent cow in the house

Thinks she is missing me?

Why can’t she get married and live naturally

Like the rest of the women folks and grow babies?

I think she has a pathological problem

The other day she took me to the vet

And asked him to castrate my crown jewel

And make me a castrato silly woman

I sing Meow, meow in high notes

Low notes, and middle notes

And can put all feeling and

I do not need being a castrato

That’s why I ran away

I am proud of my crown jewel

And in all the cat people!


Last Hurrah!

Sydney Ball


The great battered bat

The battler of the plain fields

The last of the bats

Got his bat well planted

And took a brave stand

And looked at the pavilion

Where all his mates held

Their breath and crossed their fingers

All quiet on the Western Front

Even the pigeons stopped flying

The umpire on the opposite side

Dropped down his arm

And the bowler took the start

And took his ball in his palm

Spanned it round

And like a raging bull

Came to the wicket

And threw his last ball of the over

With a hundred fifty miles speed


He had already five of his balls and five downs

Five bodyline balls

Five batsmen down

Fallen down on the wicket

Taken away on the stretchers

By the paramedics

Created a terror of Chingiz Khan

His last ball dynamite

Spun around like a meteorite

Like a fireball, a granite

And the batsman with all might

Hit the ball right

Rebound and returned

With double speed

And hit the head

Of the bodyline bowler

A deadly blow!