Tag Archives: poetry

The Fate of Poets – New EBook

Ovi Magazine celebrates the World Humanitarian Day adding a new Book in its shelves. “The Fate of Poets” David Sparenberg’s fourth EBook with Ovi magazine, dedicated to 45 years poem writing.

The poet is a response waiting for an answer.

Please do download The Fate of Poets, for FREE HERE!

Enjoy the reading!

life_110

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Miscellany by Saloni Kaul

Atop the hill old trees gaunt in a clump
All stand on guard eternal like a sage,
On the alert like batsman suave protects his stump
Staying on is life though runs get him to the front page.
Strewn generously along the pathways wild
Are all the tempting delectations that us all intrigue,
Whilst thought and wisdom of the highest league
Lures like dramatically layered mosaic well-tiled.
How like the wild imagination does
This tall top line to realms beyond extend !
Entirely flat disregarded by the general buzz ,
Could all this something strenuously strange portend ?
Immersed in meditation, sagelike old trees stay on duty
And the wayward beholder pays the price of beauty.

 miscel01_400

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Summer Breeze by Nikos Laios

I dream of blue,
Blue Skies
And blue oceans,
Azure waters
Lapping desolate
Island shores.

reflections_400I dream of spring
And green grass
On sloping hills
And cliffs shimmering
With colourful flowers
Bending in the breeze
Dipping into the sea.

I dream of the heat
Of long summers,
And the hot sand
And white-cubed
Houses dazzling
In the sunlight,
And the clanging masts
Of yachts moored
In the bays and beaches
Of Cycladic isles.

I dream of the sounds
Of Greek music in tavernas
Floating over the aroma
Of fresh seafood and salads
And crusty bread,
And the smiling tanned faces
Clapping hands and clinking
Glasses of ouzo to
Dancing feet.

I dream of the lyrical
Halcyon summer days
Of my past and yearn
For those yet to come,
And treasure memories
Of happy days kept
In the storehouse
Of my soul that
Sustains me
In my dark days.

I dream of the
Memories of love
And passion
On summer days
When we held each
Other tenderly,
With the sound
Of the ocean
And the chirping birds
Floating in through
An open window
In the morning light,
With the fragrant
Aroma of flowers
Hanging in the breeze;
And I smile at the
Thought of the bright
Tomorrows yet to come.

*******************************************************

With a digital drawing from Nikos Laios

*******************************************************

Check Nikos Laios’ EBOOK
Ida & Her Magic Camera
is online now and you can download for FREE HERE!
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John Doe Smith by Bohdan Yuri

Last night john doe was zipped,
and lifted in his black plastic bag,
the frozen stiff was finally moving
to a new location on the other side.

everyone that passed his tired spot
had recognized his shadowed slot,
reclining, on a cardboard carpet,
adrift in twilight’s senseless ride;

and on those frenzied crowded days
when indifference stepped over his face,
just a slight hitch in a pedestrian parade,
for those born into busy escapades.

the next day’s music strained its play,
a cold-shoulder tune arranged to forsake,
heads turned looking for some traces
that filled some empty ghostly spaces.

their discomfort was a taxing notion,
complete, with an uncaring notation,
explained, as just some torn out pages,
indeed, how easy to fill their ego stages;

a real memory to replay, probably not,
what’s the sense in caring delusions,
besides, what’s his name was finally
gone…, why bother to remember

john doe  — smith was his last name.

 dark01_400_02

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After coming out after a long depression by Abigail George

I wanted to say this. Just because we don’t talk

    all the time on the telephone or haven’t
    seen each other in years doesn’t mean I
    don’t thank God for you in my life. For
    distributing my work among your cool friends.
It doesn’t mean I don’t pray for your life
depres01_400    Everyday. You’re faith. You’re faith. You’re
faith to me. You mean something to me.
You’ve given my life a novel meaning. I
write with purpose now. Because of you.
Because of you, my friend. My beloved friend.
Sometimes I think of you, faraway, knee-
deep in your work. Loving a small child.
You’ve been good to me. I want you to
know that. That I’ve never forgotten your

kindness. In the open air I’m reminded
the rituals that you follow as a sangoma, and of course
your writing rituals. Nature reminds me of
you, your work. The images of ochre, earth
and divine water spilling into the air. You
don’t know about the times I was a wreck
in despair. A wreck in freaking-hardship.
You don’t know when I’ve been at my worst.
Perhaps you only see the phenomenal-me.
The me that doesn’t seem to get hurt by
anything. For me everyone is phenomenal
at something in their life. Smart at something. You
gave me something I’ve never forgotten.
Life. Freedom. I met this Catholic nun at
Tara. She was in her eighties. There for the
same reason I was. She was depressed.

Her brother was the curator of a museum
in Germany. She still had the German-
accent after living for most of her adult
life in South Africa. After supper at 5 o’
clock we would go for a long walk. You’re
like that nun to me. She (like you) gave
me a new lease on life. She taught me
how to live again after coming out of another
long depression. Now, I rinse the grains of
rice clear. So focused on what I am doing
and I wonder if you perhaps are doing
the same thing. I rinse the rice under the
cold-water tap, and I want to tell you this (but

you’re so far away). That you’re an amazing
poet and that you your life inspires me.

After coming out after a long depression
(for the South African poet Cwayita Hlohloza)

I wanted to say this. Just because we don’t talk

all the time on the telephone or haven’t
seen each other in years doesn’t mean I
don’t thank God for you in my life. For
distributing my work among your cool friends.
It doesn’t mean I don’t pray for your life
Everyday. You’re faith. You’re faith. You’re
faith to me. You mean something to me.
You’ve given my life a novel meaning. I
write with purpose now. Because of you.
Because of you, my friend. My beloved friend.
Sometimes I think of you, faraway, knee-
deep in your work. Loving a small child.
You’ve been good to me. I want you to
know that. That I’ve never forgotten your

kindness. In the open air I’m reminded
the rituals that you follow as a sangoma, and of course
your writing rituals. Nature reminds me of
you, your work. The images of ochre, earth
and divine water spilling into the air. You
don’t know about the times I was a wreck
in despair. A wreck in freaking-hardship.
You don’t know when I’ve been at my worst.
Perhaps you only see the phenomenal-me.
The me that doesn’t seem to get hurt by
anything. For me everyone is phenomenal
at something in their life. Smart at something. You
gave me something I’ve never forgotten.
Life. Freedom. I met this Catholic nun at
Tara. She was in her eighties. There for the
same reason I was. She was depressed.

Her brother was the curator of a museum
in Germany. She still had the German-
accent after living for most of her adult
life in South Africa. After supper at 5 o’
clock we would go for a long walk. You’re
like that nun to me. She (like you) gave
me a new lease on life. She taught me
how to live again after coming out of another
long depression. Now, I rinse the grains of
rice clear. So focused on what I am doing
and I wonder if you perhaps are doing
the same thing. I rinse the rice under the
cold-water tap, and I want to tell you this (but

you’re so far away). That you’re an amazing
poet and that you your life inspires me.

*****************************************************************
Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!

life_06_400

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Wipe your Tears by Shola Balogun

Child, let your eyelids gleam
Like a thousand suns.
tears01_400Let your smiles radiate
Like the stars
In the sky at night.

The comeliness of your voice
Is more graceful
Than the nightingale’s song.

Wipe your tears,my lovely one,
There is always
A new dawn tomorrow.

Ovi magazine

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Cracker Jack Box Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

I don’t wear my pocket watch anymore
it reminds me of my age, 73, soon more,
outdated gadget, time hanging where
moving parts below don’t belong nor work anymore.
I don’t like to think about endings.
Age is a Cracker Jack box with no face, modern speed dial,
no toy inside, when it stops, no salute, just pops.

 crackerjackboxpoem1_400

Lesson:  “What young men want to do all night takes older men all night to do.”

Ovi magazine

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