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Best Famous John Matthew Poems


Here is a collection of the all-time best famous John Matthew poems. This is a select list of the best famous John Matthew poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous John Matthew poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of John Matthew poems.

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by John Matthew |

Sonnet for Mother

 Decked in blooms,
Swaddled in gold filigreed shrouds, 
Smeared with perfumes,
She traveled into the clouds.

A life of love lived,
A life of more giving than taking,
Living a life of tears shed,
Turnings, and missed crossings.

She lies still beside father,
In an earthen grave dug for her,
On ere visits she knew this sepulcher,
And, with her man, she would rest there.

There is a time when we all connect
And then we all must self-destruct.


by John Matthew |

Where Giant Mushrooms Grow!

 In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow
One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show
That’s where they test how to vaporize people and flesh
By splitting and fusing atoms and start the world afresh.

A new era, a new definition, with the nuclear shield
Dawned with huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields
Can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks
Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks.

They are making bullets and missiles with lasers
That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers
Future soldiers don’t have to die for their country’s glory
They use their global positioning bullet, that’s the story.

Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line futile windmill tilters
Your wars are lost before you even see victory, dissenters
No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley
They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.

They say their soldiers are smart , they see in the dark
Their bullets can pierce armor; they can blast your mark
Where were you soldiers of the mind, I mourn
When from your toils such Frankensteins were born?

No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley
They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.


by John Matthew |

The Bombay Train Song

 He hangs on dangling handholds
As the train sways and careens
Endless nondescript buildings unfold
Their secrets as the tired warrior returns.

The day is over the night falls
Thickly through the barricaded windows
The man’s sleepy head lolls
On his shoulder in a dream disturbed.

The days are a hard white collar brawl
The sleepless night stretches ahead
There’s no space for a fly to crawl
The morning paper is still unread.

You who sleep standing
Don’t drool on his shirt
It will cost him a lot of spending
If you pour on him all your dirt.

Plastic bags, umbrellas, Tiffin
The rack is full and the seats overflow
What is that smell Peter Griffin?
Is it the Sewri sewers overflowing?

Beware of pickers of pockets
Who surround and slash with knife
Careful of your arm’s sockets
Lest they dislocate and misery make life.

Welcome to Bombay’s bustling trains
Hold on fast as if you are insane!


by John Matthew |

Is White a Color?

 White, pristine, unblemished
They say it is not a color
I love white mists, clouds
Lingering on blue mountains.

White, no shades
No off white, cream
Pure as snow on shimmering peaks
Is my favorite sight.

Nurses, priests, politicians
Are bound, chained to white
White nebulous clouds
evoke deep nostalgic thoughts.

They swaddled my father in white
As he lay in the black coffin
His best shirt was white
His loin cloth was white.

The paper I write is white
White is holy, pure
They say light is white
Because it combines all colors.

So white is the mother of all colors
The churning of all yellow, blue, green
Colors sacrifice their egos
To the eternal white.

They say they are "white"
The purest of all races
I think they aren't white
But pink, beige and red.

Why can't colors of people
Merge and become white
Would people called "white"
Allow their color to merge?

Is white a color?
The matriarch of all colors
The fountain of all extent colors
Yes, king white reigns supreme!


by John Matthew |

Being Me!

 Wild are my ways, wilder than you think
You will find me standing a little left of frame
You will find me a little away from the meeting place
I am that and much more, insignificant me.

Yes I am the one with the faraway look
Of sailors of vast dreamy oceans
I look at faraway seas and mountains
And wonder why they aren’t near.

There’s great bitterness and dejection
That churns, congeals and emanates in my words
I think, I write, I orate, because I must
The anguish is great, there’s an ocean’s churn.

The world passed me by while I wandered
Over the personal deserts and wastelands of my life
To stories I wrote and the stories became me
Characters became me and I became them.

Crap me, scrap me, scratch me you will find
A man too deeply obsessed by observing the world
Who feels his words and sentence lay trapped
Inside him crying for want of pixels and time.

Out there he stands that man on a moonlit night
Shining like a tube and ranting like one possessed
Talking his story that no one cares to understand
Because it’s not his story but ghost stories they craved!


by John Matthew |

Muskaan — A Poem

 When she smiles she sends happiness
A million pleasant thrills of the heart
To parched souls thirsting for love 
In the vast desert of human affairs.

Oh, is there in this world such a heart?
So pure in its expression of joy, smiles
I know not how to thank you dear God
For this wonderful creation of yours.

What makes Muskan’s smile so beautiful?
Is it the deep pain and hurt she is hiding?
Wringing the joys from the sadness of life
Throwing away the bland fiber and rinds.


by John Matthew |

Time Stands Still over Govandi Station

 A kite flutters,
On a high tension wire —
Against a stark blue sky.
Beggar and old mother huddle
On Govandi Railway Station —
The dirtiest station in the universe.

He shows her a plastic watch,
Smiles, “See I have time,”
She, old, gnarled, wrinkled,
Looks through beady eyes,
“I have no need for time.”

Children toss rubber ball —
In cricketing passion.
Jagged slum roofs puncture the sky,
Open drain stinks.

Mother and son —
Hungry, disowned, dispossessed —
Govandi platform is home.
A plastic bag, clothes muddy brown,
He extends a hand,
A black plastic watch on wrist,
“God will do miracles,
Give this man a meal.”

The kite flutters;
Time stands still over Govandi Station.


by John Matthew |

Passing showers

 Yesterday a passing, transient shower,
Slaked my thirst so gently, softly,
Showers in March are unheard —
In this arid part of the world.

They say the world is dying, I know,
I remember how you said love died,
It was a passing shower, a fancy,
That left you cold and shivering.

This distance, these wired networks,
Couldn’t bring your love to you,
You became strangers, distances apart,
The eyes, too, misted with showers.

What are you holding in your heart —?
Which you can’t tell me in stealing time,
What is it that your sorrowing soul,
Keeps wrapped in the mystery of your words?

Friend, your world is far removed,
I can only view the receding landscape,
Of another woman’s deep distress,
Is it much to expect the showers to pass?

If you come out of the fort, step over the moat,
Open your heart and cry in the rain,
I am sure the passing showers will cease,
And usher in the blossoms of spring!


by John Matthew |

To my son

 You will realize this wisdom,
When you are my age, and experience,
Gained from being in vexing situations,
Yet, being out of it. You do the same,
There is a joy in detachment,
Forsaking instant pleasures, pains,
For things deeper and enduring.

Don’t be a slave to the work,
Of smart slave-drivers in cubicles,
Instead explore the works of men,
Who have experienced the truths,
And distilled in their words, wisdoms,
Which may grate your ears now.

Like me, don’t be prey to sudden,
Rushes of anger that comes over cables,
And with emails and posts demolish,
Without thinking of consequences -
I have done that and am living to regret.

Don’t drink bottled and sealed lifestyles,
Its sugar, water and carbon dioxide,
Will dither you, disorient you, and sap you,
And don’t eat fast food with loose change,
They will suck you into their assembly line.

Lastly do not try to see with closed eyes,
And hear with deaf ears, keep them open.
The music and rhythm can corrupt,
And make sinning seem so tempting.
The age of innocence, son, is gone,
Every man is a mercenary army.

If you follow this advise, son,
When you are mature and wise as me,
You will say, one day, “Thank you Papa,
For your words of advice, wisdom,
To my children, too, I will pass this wisdom.”


by John Matthew |

Loneliness

 I pause midway in the in the whirl,
Of deadlines, things undone,
And average the sadness and joys -
There remains only loneliness,
Of which I see no cure,
No bitter palliatives, no anodyne.

We remain in life’s journey,
Like loners sitting depressed,
On solitary park benches, or,
Standing in balconies, staring,
Loneliness gnawing at our minds,
As hungry ants at a grain of food.
Often in life’s vicious lanes,
In lonesome moments,
It’s our failures we ponder,
Not trasient joys and victories,
We do not remember other's courage,
Only their faults, and habits.

When in each passing lonely moment,
I count the millions of joyous seconds,
I was alive to witness this world, and,
Hurtful mimetic thoughts that passed me by,
My loneliness vanishes, I scream,
“I live; I am alive this lonely moment.”