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Social Home Poems | Social Poems About Home

These Social Home poems are examples of Social poems about Home. These are the best examples of Social Home poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Free verse | |

The Evolution of Learning (Part One)

It amazes me how much man has evolved
Yet, How little he has learned
All around the globe
Millions die of disease and starvation
While the ever so intelligent creature known as man
Spends millions upon millions of dollars every single day
Killing each other
Instead of finding cures for the ill or feeding starving children
Oh sure, we dabble in those efforts
But we are committed to killing each other
Governments all around the globe
Spend most of their money
On their armies
Either to defend or attack
Their enemies
Supposedly, the most intelligent creature on earth
The intellectual creature known as man
If I may go so far
Mans commitment to war and killing
Goes far beyond any one mans term in office
It goes far beyond any one mans lifetime
It goes far beyond any century or any one era
From beginning to end, top to bottom
East to west, north to south
Red, yellow, brown, black or white 
Our commitment to killing each other
Is undeniable
How can a species that is smart enough to split atoms 
Creating weapons that will kill millions
Still be stupid enough to do it?
And now I see on the science channel
That man has now devised the Platonic beam
A beam of light that just disintegrates the target in an instant
At what price you ask?
Well I don’t know but I reckon if we diverted that money
To say solar energy projects
They could probably put a solar energy system
On every home in the world for free
Thus solving the energy crisis
Not to mention food in the icebox and medicine in the cabinet
Because of course when you create such an amazing new weapon
You need an entire new type of ship to deploy it from
Thus is born the next generation of war birds
They jettison into space 
Then go into super afterburner (A jet engine minus oxygen)
Which they said would reach like 20,000 miles an hour
So you could shoot halfway around the world
Disintegrate your enemy
And be home in time for supper
I believe when speaking of politics
It’s not a National Crisis
It’s a Global Epidemic

Copyright © Michael Jordan

Details | Rhyme | |

More Than

He stood along his grave and tears began to flow
Why Dear God did You not take me, he was so young, You know
He had a future full of dreams, and now his life is done
He was more than just a casualty, he was my only son
A woman knelt down to pray and stared sadly at the floor
My husband won't be coming home from this never ending war
Oh God please help me carry on, now that he has died
He was more than a statistic, he was my life she cried
A child asks his mother, where did my daddy go
When will he be home again because I miss him so
The mother holding back her tears, says in time you'll understand
He was more than just another soldier killed in a foreign land
Thousands have died in this unjust war
As our politicians leave their mark
They are more than just a list of names 
On a monument in the park.

Copyright © Vince Suzadail Jr.

Details | Verse | |

Ding Dong The Wicked Witch is Dead

Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Thatcher’s dead.

Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Thatcher’s dead.

Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Thatcher’s dead.

Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
Thatcher’s dead.

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Rtrn

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Quatrain | |

Charity Begins At Home

CHARITY Is the most honourable of all good intentions To help those poor souls in need We all have so much for which to be thankful Our mission is to do a good deed BEGINS The task of seeking the underprivileged Those truly in need of assistance Doing our very best to make sure they enjoy A happier and productive existence AT Very first news of someone in distress Be there to offer your hand Making sure things are contented at home Then offer to help your fellow man HOME Is definitely where charity should begin On that we must be consistent Then share the warmth of our loving heart And our happy and peaceful existence ©Jack Ellison 2012

Copyright © Jack Ellison

Details | Light Poetry | |


I was just trying to remember the past
 trying to remember the good people
 and the bad people,
 that i came across on my way,

i want you to know
that you are among the good people
 that left a good trace in my life,

once again i just want to say thank you
for passing through my life,
is so short but is wonderful
i want you here forever.

Copyright © VICTOR BUN

Details | Verse | |

I Don't Hate America

I Don’t Hate America

I like the country I live in
That doesn’t mean I have to sing their songs
to prove that sh@!.
That doesn't mean that 
I can just can’t get over the fact that
they murdered the people who built it
America was dedicated to a proposition that
“all men are created equal, except
for women, indians and blacks

The white men were just fine is what we were told 
but what about those who were stolen that never made it over to NEW WORLD?
The ones that were thrown overboard and
those who died from sickness while in transport

Remember those who were born into slavery and never even knew what freedom was before their physical bodies left
and people like Thomas Jefferson
He understood that slavery was wrong but did not free his own until his death
What about those who beaten senseless and burned, and hanged,  
All while screaming “Nigger" What’s your new name?
Oh how soon do we forget…
That’s why I despise that word and
I don’t care who it is that uses it
#u$k that slavery sh@!
And #u$k that flag b@%ch!
#u$k you America because you’ve always made things hard .
So don’t look at me strange when I show those songs disregard and those fake ass patriotic undertones about how we are the land of the free
more like the land of the captured and the Home of the Slaves, see

I don’t’ hate America
I can be and do and go as I please
But, then I remember the poor people they injected with disease 
They thought they were getting free health care but the doctor is giving them syphilis 

I remember the natives of this land
They slaughtered and labored them to work for freedom in their own land 

I remember the Civil War 
where we were a country divided by the Mason Dixon Line
The north and the south of the same country at war to save lives
I don’t hate America
This is my home 
But I refuse to let the things that 
my ancestors endured during the struggle of building SUCH A FINE COUNTRY be forgotten
It’s 2012 and the politicians still plottin to find a way to take away the black vote 
It’s the same shit, but now they just don’t use the noose to choke the life out of souls  
I’m so tired of the constitution and it’s loop holes, and amendments, and acts, and laws
This just proves that man can’t govern themselves because even with all these rules we constantly fall into the black hole deeper and deeper
I don’t hate America
I just choose to not take part in its little song and dance
I pledge my allegiance to God 
and continue to write and lose myself in my poetic trans 

Copyright © humble b

Details | Acrostic | |

Reflections: Midlife Crisis

P     aranoia permeates, etching itself into your fractured face,
A     cacophony of constant pressure; life remains a stressful race,
N     othing to hope for, no positives like promotion in the workplace,
I      nability to love, relationships lift anchor and set sail without chase,
C     hildren crushing dreams under mortgages; age grows with disgrace

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | I do not know? | |

A Story My Mother Told Me

someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...

(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband 
who was in exile at the time...

in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...

the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...

one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...

the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay

the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...

the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...

a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...

the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...

by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...

but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...

the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...

the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...

and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...

the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...

she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...

the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...

‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...

the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...

the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...

Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...

then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...

the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...

a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...

the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...

Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...

This was in the mid-1970’s...

Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...

the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...

a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...

a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...

and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...

and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...


(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Verse | |

Home of the Slaves

Land of the free
Home of the slaves
The blood, sweat and tears of my ancestors resonate
Amongst the soil where they were slain
I’m hearing their struggle
I’m feeling their pain
I can’t imagine being forced to part from my family
All for massa’s gain
So I pay homage to those who promoted change

People like every slave who tried to escape
Nat Turner, Ms Carlotta, Harriet Tubman
And the safe houses who were in accord
And peg leg Joe with his song
Follow the drinking gourd.

People like, the disregarded - those thrown overboard
And who was dismissed and defamed
The ones who were stripped of their soul, their pride, their names

The list could go on  
The full will never be told
So I pay homage to others who were bold
Like John Brown, The Freedom Riders, Sojourner Truth
Ida B Wells, Phyllis Wheatley, Maya Angelou, 
Langston Hughes and Charles Drew

George Washington Carver, Ruby Bridges
Booker T Washington and Mary McCleod Bethune
Charles Houston, Ralph Bunche, Fredrick Douglass
WEB Dubois, Paul Robeson, Ralph Abernathy
Benjamin Banneker, Marcus Garvey and Crispus Attucks
Who’s death by the way
Symbolized the American lie
You cant declare the rights of all men
While the people of African decent rights get denied
But still we rise

Thanks to Dr Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, 
The Black Panthers, the Buffalo Soldiers and Tuskegee Airmen
None who were showed any love
Yeah it’s an uphill battle, 
But obviously greatness can be done.

We can rise above this stigma 
That blacks are lazy and daunting
That our worth is null and void 
And in essence minus nothing
And of all the names mentioned 
And the greatness of their successes
No one has been able to erase the evil transgressions of a racist mind
And once you have experienced just a taste of it
It changes your perception of time
The oppression beats like the drum on the chariot
Of when it was finally time to escape to freedom
It's mine

Copyright © humble b

Details | Narrative | |

Broken home

Remax can sale you a home but can't sale you happiness. I never visit the state of Georgia but things do get a little peaches. See this what happens when you eat finger food and take out orders. I never receive your Southern Hospitality/ I couldn’t even receive a  plate of food you cook/ you can finally see now when I walk away out your life forever I don’t even have a single word for you. Only thing you will receive from me is this middle finger. You was taught at young age to go to School and learn in Class. But surely class can’t teach you “CLASS”!!

 A moment silent   things were so quiet and  complicate in the beginning I thought we could have reconnect /But just like the chips to connect four they don’t always stay in the same order. You had play a handful of games and this when the “Battleship” games has to end. Now I hope you feel the water rise from your sinking ship and allow your tears to fumble into your lap.

Copyright © christopher michaels

Details | I do not know? | |

The Women

The Women

(for the countless women, names unknown, who bore the brunt of Apartheid, and who fought the racist system at great cost to themselves and their families, and for my mother, Zubeida Moolla)

Pregnant, your husband on the run,
your daughter, a child, a few years old,

they hauled you in, these brutish men,
into the bowels of Apartheid's racist hell.

They wanted information, you gave them nothing,
these savage men, who skin happened to be lighter,

and white was right in South Africa back then,

but, you did not cower, you stood resolute,

you, my mother, faced them down, their power,
their 'racial superiority', their taunts, their threats.

You, my mother, would not, could not break,

You stood firm, you stood tall.

You, like the countless mothers did not break, did not fall.

You told me many things, of the pains, the struggles,

the scraping for scraps, the desolation of separation
from your beloved Tasneem and your beloved Azad,

my elder sister and brother, whom I could not grow
up with, your beloved children separated by time, by place,

by monstrous Apartheid, by brutish men,
whose skin just happened to be lighter.

You told me many things, as I grew older,
of the years in exile, of the winters that grew ever colder.

You were a fighter, for a just cause,
like countless other South African women,

you sacrificed much, you suffered the pangs,
of memories that cut into your bone, your marrow,

you resisted a system, an ideology, brutal and callous and narrow.

Yes, you lived to see freedom arrive, yet you suffered still,
a family torn apart, and struggling to rebuild a life,

all the while, nursing a void, that nothing could ever fill.

I salute you, mother, as I salute the nameless mothers,

the countless sisters, daughters, women of this land,
who fought, sacrificing it all for taking a moral stand.

I salute you, my mother, and though you have passed,
your body interred in your beloved South African soil,

you shall remain, within me, an ever-present reminder,

of the cost of freedom, the struggles, the hunger, the toil.

I salute you!

(for the brave women of South Africa, of all colours,
who fought against racial discrimination and Apartheid)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Haiku | |

Green Grass Of Home

the green grass of home
other pastures desirable
commandments broken

Copyright © Mac McGovern

Details | Haiku | |


Play The Radio Get Up And Dance All Night Long Music Heals The Soul

Copyright © humble b

Details | I do not know? | |

The Nameless - for South Africans of all colours who fought for freedom

The Nameless

Slipping through the sieve of history,

the nameless rest.

Not for the nameless are roads renamed, nor monuments built.

Not for the nameless are songs sung, nor ink spilled.

The nameless rest.

Their silent sacrifice,

quiet ordeal,

muted trauma,

remain interred,

amongst their remains.

The nameless rest.

Not for the nameless are doctorates conferred, nor eulogies recited.

Not for the nameless are honours bestowed, nor homages directed.

The nameless rest.

They rest within us,

they walk with us,

in every step that we tread.

They rest within us,

they walk with us,

for their spirit is not dead.

“Your name is unknown, your deed is immortal”
- inscription at The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier WWII in Moscow

Special thanks to my dearest elder sister Tasneem Nobandla Moolla, whose conversations with me about life as a non-white person growing up in pre and post-Apartheid South Africa prompted me to write this dedication to the countless, nameless South Africans of every colour, whose sacrifices and dedication in the struggle against Apartheid tyranny must never be forgotten.

My sister’s middle name ‘Nobandla’ which is an isiXhosa name and means “she who is of the people” was given by her godfather, Nelson Mandela, my father’s ‘best-man who could not be, as Nelson Mandela was unable to-make it to my parent’s wedding as he was in jail at the time in the old Johannesburg Fort. This was the 31st December 1961.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Light Poetry | |

Home Sweat Home

A triangle top
A square foundation
A picketed white fence guarded 
two spotted dalmatians sitting on the
shaggiest rug that reads
"Home Sweat Home"

Copyright © Kira Price

Details | Concrete | |


A serpent underneath blue sky,
in shade of man, in twinkle of an eye,
above brick wall, in the structure, at the floor,
venom of white dove; contaminated food, undrinkable water,
misguided youth, pregnant daughter, unfaithful father and hateful son,
mothers do pray while we walk through Babylon;
on teli and in the press, on top shells,
price none the less, in bedroom and at your door..
dawn of a new day seemed to be dark,
after all.

Copyright © Miche Ulman

Details | Verse | |

Philosophical Poetry Week: Transient Tuesday

I am a misprint,
Ink blot on love,
I remain a maybe
Longing for fact,
No speck of lint,
A hand in glove.
Thunder; a baby
Will only react

When you etch
Parallel clouds,
Whistling on cue
To a dead town.
Dream a sketch
Of silent crowds
Becoming you,
This boiling crown

Chews thought
Into flagellation.
Holes in the walls
To spy through,
Seeking a sort
Of bricked-up sun.
A heaven of halls,
All leaving you.

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Haiku | |

This Land is My Land

Pastoral country
Where folks wave to passers by--
Farmers plowing

Exit 386
Wal-Mart, fast foods, and hotels-- 
Tourists stop

Modern businesses
Of every type one might need--
The short road to town

Refurbished storefronts
With arts antiques and barbers--
Downtown businesses

Houses big and small
Fill the local neighborhoods--
Quiet streets

State Parks, music fests
And neighborhood barbeques --

Outside of town
Beautiful farms and woodlands--
The rural folks

The river rises
Bringing water to my land --
Children in kayaks

The home of brave hearts
Who understand nature’s way --
King and rattlesnakes

The home of the free
Where people are seen smiling--
Live Oak, Florida

ã June 5, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen

Written for Poetry Soup Member   MY LAND IS MY HOME 
Sponsored by: ~ SKAT ~

Copyright © Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen

Details | I do not know? | |

The Petty Posh-WahZee - Liberation and Ostentation

The Petty Posh-Wahzee - Liberation & Ostentation

The Not-So Distant Past:

The fallen fighters for freedom, are unable to turn in their graves,
their battered, fragmented bones, mixed with a handful of torn rags,
are all that remain, a mute reminder of their selfless valiant sacrifice.

They endured brutal Apartheid harassment, detentions without trial,
torture in the cells, and mental anguish when loved ones disappeared,
they left their homeland, to continue the struggle against racial bigotry,
while countless others fought the scourge of white-minority rule at home.

Nelson Mandela and many, many others, spent their lives imprisoned,
on islands of stone, and on islands of the cruellest torture, yet they stood,
never bowing, never scraping, they stood, firm for ideals for which they were prepared to die,

and many, many comrades did die, at the hands of the callous oppressor,
and many, many comrades perished in distant lands, torn from their homes,
while the struggle continued, for decades, soaked in blood, in tears, in pain.

The Present:

19 years have passed, since freedom was secured at the highest of prices,
delivering unto us, this present, a gift of emancipation from servitude,

a freedom to walk this land, head held high, no longer second-class citizens,
in the land of our ancestors, whose voices we hear and need to heed today.

I do not care much for fashion, Lewis-Fit-On and Sleeves unSt.-Moron,
yet the ostentation that I witness baffles even my unsophisticated palate,

our ancestors' plaintive whispers are being dismissed, left unheeded, as
we browse the aisles for more and more, always for more and yet more.

Asphyxiated by the excess of the Petty Posh-Wahzee, we find ourselves,
perched precariously on the edge, of a dissolution of all that is humane,

babies go hungry, wives are battered, our elders left in hospitals for hours,
I cringe as I scribble these words, perhaps too sanctimonious and preachy,

yet I know, deep in the marrow of my brittle bones, I know, I know, I know,
this tree of freedom planted by the nameless daughters and sons of Africa,

needs to be shielded, nurtured, protected from our very own baser impulses,
so that the precious tree of freedom, may bear the fruit that may feed us all,

for if not, then we are doomed, to tip over, and into the yawning abyss, we shall fall.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Rhyme | |

I'm Not the Kind of Dad That I Need to Be

I’m Not the Kind of Dad That I Need to Be! I remember reading the Bible to my son. But what a mess, my life has become! My children told me, they were proud of their dad! Now they say they’re embarrassed and sad. I once lived a Godly life! I really did! Just look at me now! And how I live! Things in life I once called wrong and sin. Are now causing me to stumble again. God's word I had loved! Jesus was my treasure! I "traded my soul" for what gives me "pleasure." I’m not the kind of father that I need to be! What kind of example will my family find in me? Will I grow stubborn to God as I age? Replacing his peace, for anger and rage? I need Jesus to bring peace to my troubled soul! I ask YOU Lord to make me clean and whole. Restore unto me the joy of my salvation. By your blood, make me a new creation. Words alone cannot truly express… This family God's given to me. I am so blessed! By Jim Pemberton

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

Details | Verse | |

I like your love

I like your love
It's pure, it's innocent
and I don't think I've seen this before

You replenish my reserves before it's necessary 
you lift my wings up and 
make me superior to my adversary 
Creatively providing the exact amount of 
what I need to go another day
I like your love
and for as long as you'll have me I'll stay

You make me comfortable in my space
What she share cannot be replaced
with any other type of love
be it artificial or tainted or lustfully blatant 
Those illusions don't exist because
we found this love and we claimed it

I cherish those nights when I scratch your head
When you sit between my thighs and I twist your dreads
We become an us that is so pure
that the spring waters question the purity of it's source
I like your love - it's a divine force

Copyright © humble b

Details | Rhyme | |

Ode to My neighbour The Woodpeckers

By Sashi. Prabhu(zeauoxian) 1/3/2012.

Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward, From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared. From the vertical column sans a crown of leaves of rotted dead wood, Once, which was in its own right a magnificent coconut tree where it stood. Freshness, splendor, Vitality and flexibility of a live tree all depleted and gone, T’was a pertinent choice for the woodpecker mates to build a home foregone. Abundantly birdies flock, Pigeons, robins, mynahs, hornbills, cranes and parrots, On the evergreen nearby tamarind tree, but the woodpeckers my eyes ferrets. From that eventful day my eyes they set upon, Their wood pecking bills would on the bark sculpt and impinge on. A homely hole to drill, Their head moving rhythmically and looks like a cap with red frill. Twenty five days back they first arrived I lucidly recollect, Ten days, a pair of hatched altricial chicks, mates from adversaries’ have to protect. One morn had me glancing to the oval cavital hole on the bark, And feasted my eyes on feeding chicks being readied, their lives to embark. Blissful and content , I recollect now I sat a bit longer to observe and discern, Glorious hues, auger bill, cap with red frills, of the peckers as they take their unambiguous turns. To zip across like beige, buttery yellow plumaged darts across the lush foliage all green, Within, watchable bounds to fetch, insects, worms and saps as nutriment routine. The chicks I saw they peek out of the shielded barky holes with awe, Strength it seems to me have filled their wings bill and sharpened claw. Now I wonder if I can listen to the joyous feminine “chrr” and the shrill masculine “kwirr”. As the young chick in the hole frolicking, giving it a try to fly, Away in the wide world after saying a good bye onto the sky very high………… Now the mates without emotions, kerfuffle and ado, To each other, their home and their prying neighbour me have bid “adieu”. Often, I glimpse from my roof top garden, leftward, From the sedentary swing but I know the descent of woodpeckers have soared

Copyright © sashi prabhu

Details | Rhyme | |

I Know of An Old Fashioned Family

There’s a family I know,  that may seem old fashioned.
But they serve others from a heart of compassion!

They don’t have much in the scope
 of entertainment.
But they have each other,
 and much contentment.

They have a love for God that comes from within!
And are thankful to the Lord
 for being their friend!

They don’t get too involved with that the world brings.
They have each others love.  
They have everything!

This family has been an inspiration to others too!
By their giving hearts, in much of what they do!

This family has a commitment to serve God above.
And have asked Jesus to fill them with his love!

This may seem old fashioned, 
not to have a lot of things…
But they know their Lord 
and the love that he brings!

I’m thankful to know them and their Godly inspiration…
I extend to them a heart of thanks  and appreciation!

Please dear Lord, bless and keep them in your arms!
Be with them Jesus, and protect them from harm!

May the blessings of God keep 
flowing through them!
And may the peace and joy of God continue to be with them!

By Jim Pemberton   05/29/13

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

Details | I do not know? | |

For Bruce Springsteen

for bruce springsteen...

it was a rain-swept monsoon day

way back then, so many moons away

when i felt the music strumming in my veins

setting me free like a runaway horse without any reins

you sang of simple truths, 

your verse spoke to people just like me

in my lonely, wasted, and desolately quiet night

as you screamed out tragic human wrongs, and of everyone's plight

'bobby jean' spoke to me

of that girl down the street

glimpses of whom, we as innocents would furtively meet

and 'the river' that flowed through my ever-barren heart

led me down further roads of thunder

when slowly i finally learnt that the hardest part was fighting on

and never to surrender

to the hard-luck dreams that were born to run

while i danced in the dark 

with memories vivid and stark

even as i whined like that dog who for forever lost his howling bark

and then a 'human touch' came along

and 'better days' seemed real, not just words in a song

and still you sang and swayed and spoke straight into my unseeing eyes

as gardens of secrets were opened, and as your fist punched the skies

in an anger that i too felt and in whose cauldron i too burned

as we saw murder get incorporated, while on its wobbly axis, our fragile world apathetically turned

and then suddenly i was told that i was all grown up

working on a highway of scattered ideals

and absolving myself by sprinkling some coins in a waiting cup

well, after all these years of walking along so many a thorny road

with an armour of your verse covering me, even as i hear them taunt me and even as they continue to goad

but now i can feel myself fading away, into the bleakness of this coming night

just like the ghost of that old tom joad...

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Lyric | |

Last Night This Canalbank Was Home

Last night, this canal bank was home
I see the tossed newspapers blow
And a solitary brown blanket lie
Where not all that long ago
Someone slept... but they were not camping
This was home last night
And, as I approach the bridge
I see him sitting there... on my right...

Hes old and weezened, lights a cigarette
Or at least his best to do so he does try...
And I ever the Christian full of compassion
Keep my distance and hurry by.

Copyright © Tomás Ó Cárthaigh

Details | I do not know? | |

The Dumb Mother Award Gos Too

the dumbest mother, award goes too... dumb
and why you may ask
because i am not home schooling right now
because my child my student 
fell softy asleep! during his math lessen today

i wanted to personally belittle him
and poke home with a learning stick      
and with a witchy voice say 
get up and open your eyes 
you can't get a job that way 

but i didn't do that, 
i just say are you sleepy 
and to my supreme surprise
he said in a most tired voice

I just took him to the doctors 2 or 3 times 
and they found not one thing wrong 
the other is talking in his sleep too
and making sound so loud that 
he stop breathing and wake and talks
with words that could be made out to be anything
like words that are not of this the plant!

I want to wave my flag 
but there is not one to tell 
and what could keep my 
kids wanting to learn 
when there health is small and weak 
and there understanding that 
these who are to do no wrong 
just do nothing 

Copyright © verlecia fields

Details | I do not know? | |

I Stand, Alone

I stand, alone.

Scratching for my truths,
peeling away the veneer,

I stand, alone, before this
impregnable cliff so sheer.

Cocooned in my solitary shell,
wrenching a smile from a tear,

I stand, alone, a little odd,
and definitely quite queer.

I stand, alone.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Couplet | |

Le Vacance Pretentieuse: Darts

Drops of sweat slip from my furrowed brow
Eyes squint, select a number and let fly now

Miss again, a millimetre is a mile once more
Aimed for triple twenty, only got double four

The walk of shame, my oh so familiar friend
Silence broken, on alcohol I forever depend

The steel point of eyes bore into my neck
My opponent leaves me a juddering wreck

I lose the match; the wife won’t give me a kiss 
I wish I could have been anything else than this... 

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Didactic | |

Blind By Mod

Modernisation is hopping her repercussion
 Modernisation is driving her civilisation
 This is the safari; that brain the colony
 The colossal obnoxious tenets of the West
 Calling her to the deluding evacuation.

 The edifice her architect had strictly structured
 Who can dare to alter it?
 Even on her own body and soul.

 Variety upon variety, she want to put on
 That is her whisper why, she mime the day.
 A Bimbo! Mimicking the mockery of the West.

 Who is barbaric in this case?
 Reason! She revolt the reasoning
 Focus! She resist the purpose
 Loyal! She refuse the modesty.

 Let her believe this one
 That in her friction state
 Her forward (will) never; her backward (will) ever.

 Perhaps, she should recall this one
 She need to behold
 If she must to recount, in her world.

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole