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Best Famous John Matthew Poems

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by John Matthew |

To an Online Friend

 May be the whole thing was a dream,
Pinched myself awake this morn,
To check if you are there, virtually,
And felt your sudden absence online!

Be sure you will always exist,
In a special place in my heart,
Your smile in pixels is so sweet,
But, no, you are too good to be true!

Where are you? Do you exist?
Do you still inhabit Internet protocols?
And virtual chats and emoticons
That in joyous moments I watched.
Now that you are gone; are you Among your charmed admirers? I wish you well, I will miss you, May you be ever happy and smiling! Distances and togetherness, Opposites, can’t networks cross, I could never bridge the distances Of your sweet kindness.
Someday, if you feel betrayed, And, as weepy as a monsoon cloud, Remember this friend who still cares, And felt fulfilled by your brief warmth.

by John Matthew |


 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.

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 |

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 |

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 |

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 |

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 |

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 |

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 |

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.