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Social Memory Poems | Social Poems About Memory

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

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Details | I do not know? | |

Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom

(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)

Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:

Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.

He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.

After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.

In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.

Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.

He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.

Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.

On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.

Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.

His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.

In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.

On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:

‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.

Tell my people that I love them.

They must continue the fight.’

Mahlangu died for a cause!


The Struggle Continues…

(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

South African Freedom Day

freedom day 
(april the 27th 1994)

far too many brave compatriots died


flooding rivers of tears were cried

far too many families ripped apart


daggers cutting into their heart

the pain is felt still deep today
on this glorious sun-splashed South African Freedom Day

as we pause and remember those who do not remain with us anymore

as we appreciate the fruits that their sacrifice and struggle bore

far too many to count and to name

but we honour them all while we keep burning that eternal flame

...Oliver Reginald Tambo
...Chris Hani
...Solomon Mahlangu
...Prakash Napier
...Yusuf Akhalwaya
...Matthew Goniwe
...Neil Aggett
,,,Ahmed Timol
...Vuyisile Mini
...Hector Peterson
...Babla Saloojee
...Bram Fischer
...Dulcie September
...Sparrow Mkonto

just a few, but so many still nameless

who were brutally cut down
by a racist system that was merciless, and cruelly shameless

we honour you, today
but we remember you each and every day

when we breathe in the air of the freedom that you craved

as we walk the roads of a wounded but healing country that you saved

from itself, for the hate and racism and hushed prejudice of race and gender and religion and sexual persuasion and caste and creed

that you so valiantly fought against, is still with us, as it on fear and ignorance does feed

the odour of racism and hate
of white and black and jew and muslim and hindu and catholic and yellow and brown

is a living parasite that lives and thrives all across this beautiful world, from cities and villages and hamlets, to the smallest rural town

it may become a mark of shame upon us all 

so we have to, today, struggle against and boldly fight

for the sacrifices of the many can never be cheapened, by the polite dinner-table murmurs of hate, try as hard as they might

for if we as a nation, 
a country 
a world 
a people 

one people

are to truly step out of the lashing cold painful rain

we have to continue your struggle

so that your supreme sacrifices may not have been in vain...

and so we say 

'hamba kahle, comrades'

to you who laid your young lives down and slipped away

so that we who remain may in the sunlight and out of the rain live and breathe and stay

in a country, and in a world
where religion and gender and sexual-persuasion and all colourful hues

may mingle and love and laugh and cry together on the sun-filled avenues

so thank you, comrades, for showing us a better path that we must embark on as we shuffle onwards into a brighter tomorrow

away from the hurt of the past, and away from the tears and away from all the sorrow

for the true freedom that we seek now, is the freedom from our own racism, our own prejudices, our own sexism, our own petty hates and bottled-up anger

for therein, lies the fight ahead

for therein, lies the real and growing danger.
Aluta Continua!
Amandla Ngawethu!

The Struggle Continues...

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

RIP Virginity

Dear Sir, my innocence is gone now, no more fear 
Do you love to **** me again, I am always here. 
I wonder when you taught me how to use a pen, 
I was so into you but my ****** was in pain! 
I was crying; I was too immature to understand
I was turning only 13, I couldn't feel what happened. 
but I promise I never forget what you taught me at the end. 
I begged you to stop and looked into your eyes, 
there was a reflection of a cruel world, that’s  what I deserved!
Don't be afraid, mommy never knows what you did, 
Nobody knows that you made me bleed. 
Dear sir, my innocence is gone with all my tears,
as I had no safe place to hide myself from fears.
Nobody saw anything as your world was so blind! 
having hidden hatred inside, a virgin died. 
Dear sir, time cannot erase your memories, 
time doesn't heal all wounds, that you marked, 
yes, you took my innocence that will be always on my mind.
My innocent world was shattered by your touch
Hope no one ever has to experience such
For all the pain, all the cruelty, thank you very much!

Copyright © Farhana Akter

Details | Rhyme | |

The Family That God Gave to Me

The Family That God Gave to Me I think about the family, that God gave to me... And think about where they'll spend eternity! I think about the good times, that we've had. And the trials we've faced... Both good and bad! God helped us to overcome adversity together! And proved his faithfulness... Today and forever! He showed us the Godly path, that we should follow... And promised to be with us! Today and tomorrow! He's proven how much he loves us! And how much that he cares for us! Thank you my lord, for all you do! Where would we be? If not for you? You've proven yourself over and over again! Thank you so much, for being our friend! By Jim Pemberton

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

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 | Sonnet | |

SUNDAY DINNER A hillbilly sonnet

        SUNDAY DINNER  (Hillbilly sonnet)
Ma's cookin now, so come and set a spell
and you can bet we'll have her Sunday best
before the settin sun, and who can tell
what's on her stove--but it will meet the test.

Can't you just smell that fryin chicken now?
And you must know the gravie's fresh and hot
for pourin on them taters--I allow
a little more than I should have--so what?!?

The butter it just melts on bread so light
to compliment the vegetables we grow,
now if you know a life that's half as right
as this, you'd better make it yours to know.

   And I will say the grace, to thank God for
   what He has give--so He will give us more.
© ron wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet

Copyright © Vee Bdosa

Details | Verse | |

That Girl

Everyone thinks they know that girl. At 
least they think they do. 
You know that girl that makes everyone 
laugh, and is a class clown. Who used 
to be a star athlete. And had everything 
going for her.
Yeah that girl that everyone thinks they 
She became homeless at the age of 16 
due to a house fire.
Yeah that girl everyone thinks they 
Yet that girl is still laughing away and 
making everyone laugh, but isn't the 
same inside, No, Something inside of 
her changed they way she felt.
Yeah that girl everyone thinks they 
She became mentally ill, she was 
diagnosed with major depression and 
bipolar disorder. She was always under 
medication, so you never knew what 
side of her you where going to get.
Yeah that girl everyone thinks they 
No one knew how much she hated 
hearing sirens go off, or how she 
couldn't stand seeing fire trucks. She 
struggled living her life daily.
Yeah that girl everyone thinks they 
She lost her closes friends cause she 
shut them out and nearly lost them all.
Yeah that girl everyone thinks they 
From what I hear it's been 3 years 
since the fire and that girl is barely 
getting her sight of her future back.
Yeah that girl everyone thinks they 
She is talking to her lost friends again, 
but just isn't the same for her, so she 
has to make new ones. Which means 
she has no one.
Yeah that girl everyone thinks they 
She is happier now and is looking 
forward to graduating and moving on 
from this chapter of her life and letting 
How do I know so much of her?, well 
"that girl" is me.Yeah that girl that 
everyone thought they knew. 
But im fine now. Sure I have my 
downfalls, but I still get up and smile. 

Copyright © Laura La Quay

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 | Personification | |

Not Really

How it must hurt you so on days like this,
  Walking around with a frown clutching your fist.
Hearing the words that are meant to anger you,
   Confused  you cry because there is nothing you can do.
Your mind is playing tricks on you driving you to say,
    I hate you all and the games you play please just go away.
Trusting nobody you are not sure which way you sould go,
    It's not real and  all in your head  is what you do not know.
Waiting to see just what tomorrow will possibly bring,
    All will be perfect and you wont rememver a thing.
Your thoughts they torement you  almost every day,
   Each night asking our Lord why your life is this way.
Feeling so alone thinking there is nobody who cares,
   But actually there is so many but you are not aware .
If only you would hear me so you might begin to see,
   You must believe in yourself if you want to be free.
You must have some faith if you are to understand ,
    What God has in store for you and what he has planned.
All the hurt and anger will soon begin to disappear ,
    You'll stand up tall again facing life with no fear.
Please remember always that you are never alone,
    By listening with your heart your path will be shown.


Details | Free verse | |

If Old Men Fought

An old man looking out his door,
gaze fixed on a distant shore,
reminiscing to a time, not of happiness,
or, the prospect of a bright future,
to when he was sick to his very core,
to when as a youth, he went to war

A time before infallibility had meaning,
patriotism and bravado the craze,
the future was still unknown,
vigor for life at its all time high,
a time for romance, partying, buying,
no thought of pain, deformity, dying

Too young to understand or question,
ship to foreign shore, medals abound,
will impress the girls next time in town,
sacrifice not temporary,
forever more,
a legacy etched into a wall, few will remember,
flesh shredded, burned, torn,
families mourn

A time, when he willingly went to war,
will happen no more,
all lost in youth, now unrelenting,
no blind obedience,
minimal risk,
long life, his number one ambition

As he turns back from the door,
he thinks of the youth,
here now, soon no more,
lessons never learned,
the call to war,
to common the roar,
complacency the mood,
another generation removed

The old man agonizes
over what was originally not known,
war is preventable,
life too precious to waste,
the solution simple,
his vision, maybe too late

Send old men to the front to fight,
arthritis, heart disease, poor eyesight,
let the youth enjoy their life,
his near over, its only right

Send old men, to the front, to fight
ask them to give up their life,
patriotism and bravado, still alive,
will and desire would not last the night,
old men do not rush to death in their twilight,
failure inevitable, the old man smiles,
knows he's right

Wars not possible,
if old men, are sent to fight

Copyright © Mac McGovern

Details | Rhyme | |


Age nibbles at life 
Getting older makes you think twice
Strolling down memory lane 
You noticed some things never change
Memory, is more complex; of mute agenda and subtext
Sometimes I can’t think what is next?
In my own imagining, I begin to live.
In my own remembering, all my sins please forgive
A primitive mix, of future thoughts and subtle tricks.
I have a headache too much thinking makes me sick
I have many days of happiness that were much too brief.
There is longer nights of pain and grief.
In the deep pits of my mind
My past is not hard to find
Today will be a memory yesterday is a memory drifting away 
When I reminisce of my past I have nothing to say
What would we be without the power to recall? 
Without our gift of memory we'd be little at all 
Memory of our past and of our future, 
Leaves us with endless wounds to nurture

"Memory is a way of holding on to the things you love, the things you are, the things you 
never want to lose.” 
 Kevin Arnold  

Copyright © Jeffrey Lee

Details | Free verse | |

A Hospital Stay - Part VI


                                                   Miracles and Miseries

The world resolved itself back into focus
As I lay amid the swarm of monitors
Still gulping the sword that brought me breath.

The worst now past
Many small miseries remained,
Chief among them the continuing mystery
Of my flooded, struggling lungs.

Finally I breathe well enough for the sword to be removed,
But the tests go on and on
The birth of each day bearing forth
Its own fresh indignity.

They give up guessing and haul me down again
To be opened anew and read for signs.

On the day this is done
The invisible agents of death outside
Decide to mock their pursuers
By leaving a tarot card at that day's shooting site.

They chose the Death card, of course
Revealing how little those 
Who choose to play God games really know
About the mystical.

Dreaming of omnipotence through dealing death
The unseen assassins miss their own meaning;
For this card signals change, the ending of present things.
They have unwittingly declared their game will soon be over,
Predicting their own demise.

Meanwhile the doctors make their own spread of me
And come up blank again.

     Once more I return to I.C.U.,
     Held together with staples.

     Once more the little agonies ensue:
     The sitting, the turning, the testing.

By night they come for my blood.
By day they come for  tests.
Always, in the background, the quiet moanings
Of we, the damned, condemned to medical Limbo
Roll on with the blind passage of hours and days.

     The English nurse comes, all brightness and bubble
     To heave my fragile self about;
     She's a welcome break in the monotony
     As my sustainers come and go.

Again the busy bedside conferences
And again the final admission
That all their probings have led down blind alleys.

A last-ditch effort is finally proposed:
Direct drainage of the drowning lungs.
To them this seems as a grasping at straws,
But to me it seems the one sensible solution,
And I look forward to it eagerly.
My inner mantra of "This too shall pass"
Is wearing thin.

Like a Christian martyr of old,
They pierce my back with their lance,
And the sea within that is drowning me
Finds its way out.

As the noxious waters within rush out,
Air surges into my grateful lungs.
From this moment, recovery becomes the new reality.

As I recover,
Indiscretion leads to capture 
Of the unseen terrormakers.

To the astonishment of all, 
They prove to be a dignified looking black man
And his enthralled protege' -
No prior convictions, no history of trouble 
Attached to them at all.

This is how our modern Destroyers come calling.
Well dressed, well spoken models of propriety.

Copyright © William Masonis

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 | Couplet | |

Daily Life

Living day in
Living day out
Working as hard as I can
To get money to pay the bills
Searching for food for the family
Trying to get through the day
As best as I can

All it matters
Is to get some money
To be able to not to think
How am I supposed to support?
My kids, my husband, and I
It all hits me like rain pounding the roof
Is this how life is supposed to be?

Going down hills
Going up hills
Having great times
And some bad times
You think your life should be easy
It is not supposed to be
Life is difficult for a reason


Copyright © Mikayla Mitts

Details | Acrostic | |


Though I did not want anyone to know

Helping people is what I try to do so I can grow

Even when it is tough I realize I help people not for show

Self involvement is a must a way to make things make sense

Eager to do things I become sometimes dense

Caring about the things I love is what really can help my choice

Revealing my secret to you I will keep my poise

Even when the time comes I will not be spoiled because of my heart

The secret to doing things is make it a great memory so it will not part

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast

Details | Verse | |

Spirituals and Drums

My ancestors walking in the night
using oil lights and moonlight for guides
while being instructed to Wade in the Water
to camouflage their scents like disguise

The Sweet Chariot awaited 
so they could ride away
Harriet was a soldier
and it wasn't an option to be caught during the day
That's the same mentality Nat Turner had when he sang
Steal Away

They would follow the drinking gourd
so all were in accord to go north
The Gospel Train was coming
and at the end of the journey
was a fine reward
Freedom was coming
and it was a long time coming and
they walked until they heard freedom bells ringing
and I still hear their tired footsteps running

Thinking of My Darling Nelly Gray
Stolen from my arms a random September day
and eliminated our chances to run away together
No family ties, no love, no strength says the oppressor

Then I hear the drums beat in the darkness
giving me the hope of finally being free
Maybe I'll follow them this time on faith
on bended knee
There must be a place for me among the light
of this darkness
Among oppression, thieves, evil-doers
no thought on their conscience

Thank goodness for the safe houses that
supported our traveled distances
and for the conductors who bore witnesses
and may God have mercy on the souls who
were against this
and on those who chose to forget this sh@!

I still hear crying in quilts of safety 
because I know that the burden was heavy
to be at the mercy of nature and patrol men
catching run-away slaves for money
Some did it bare feet with freedom ahead of this
loved induced journey and they made it
So all that bull about how your life is hard
just stuff it in an envelope and save it

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 | I do not know? | |

Tomorrow is Ours

Tomorrow is Ours.

Suffocating beneath the weight of historical fear,
asphyxiated by the legacy of traumatised yesteryear,

the festering wounds of enslavement still remain,
juggling euphemisms in a crisp sound-bitten refrain,

spewing out neo-liberal economic charades,
doling out charity in strips of plastic band-aids,


tomorrow shall be ours,

casting away subservient mind-sets that shackle,
no longer the weakened prey of the insatiable jackal,

tomorrow shall be ours,

we shall reclaim our plundered mindspaces,
we shall shed our chains, leaving behind the traces,

of past injustice, of the hurt and pain of our ancestors' sorrows,

we are here, now, alive with hope,

we shall rightfully claim our own tomorrows.

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

Ignored Breath

Sweet breath of steaming treats traveled

through the diner, the streets, lingered

and was ignored by all

but one. A lone little girl with dirt

upon her nose. Savory juices ran

down laughing chins, dripping

with the ending rains.

Her trembling fingers flicking

little dots of mold.  Standing beneath

 wondrous sights, dancing stars,

and the full moon's light,

the poor girl ate.  Tricked

by  whispering breath she smiled.

Every swallow savored

she stepped into the night.

Copyright © Christina Limbaugh

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 | 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 | |

You Were A Friend

You were a friend,
I couldn’t ask for more,
Now that we’ve reached the end,
You walked out the door.
I know what you don’t,
You have forgotten.
Admit it, (I won’t)
I think about you so often.
I wanted to keep
Memories in a jar,
So when I sleep
Better times wouldn’t be so far.
Our friendship is gone
But the past still lingers,
The Sun’s rise at dawn
Erases times that were better.
You were a friend,
‘That’ I would forget,
Times were different then,
I wish we never met…

Copyright © Eric Thomas

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 | Couplet | |

Memory Lane

I took a meandering jaunt through my mind
I searched every crevice to see what I’d find
Some memories were useful, while others were not
I stumbled on some things I thought I’d forgot
About halfway through, well…I made a sharp right
and what lay before, was a rather strange sight
I can’t say for sure that my mind played a trick
what I saw was a woman, except she had a…
Quick as the wind, well I turned right around
and I ran and I ran and I ran ‘til I found
I was feeling quite nervous, and starting to doubt
whether there was an exit, or any way out.
But then from a distant recess came a noise
it sounded like laughter of young girls and boys.
So I followed my ears just to see where it led
what I found weren’t children, but monsters instead.
“Neutrals” is what they were labeled I think;
and all them hated both blue things and pink.
I didn’t have time for their nonsense at all
but when I tried to leave, they all grew super tall!
The neutrals were giants with size 18 feet,
they were angry and shouting, I had to retreat.
Their wrath was a rainstorm with nowhere to hide
I’ll not say much more, but this bit I’ll confide:
This jaunt through my mind, isn’t crazy at all
most of it came off today’s Facebook wall.


*Apparently there is lots of controversy today over Target changing their signs to be gender neutral, and there is a lot of noise about gender identity, hyper-gendering, neutral gendering etc. It mostly all seems like nonsense to me...if you couldn't tell, haha.

Copyright © The Grahamburglar

Details | Verse | |

I blame me

I blame me for all my mistakes
I blame me for all the rejection and heartache
I blame me for all the times I stayed silent 
and should have started and earthquake
with my words
I should have spoken up when I had the chance
now all those thoughts are wasted
unspoken, unheard

I blame me when my husband touches me 
and I feel the hands of a predators pounce
And I blame me when the pressure it on
because all I had to do was shout out and renounce His name
Lord, help me to get rid of the shame

I blame me for my loneliness
I blame me for my feelings of lust
I blame me when I look at myself and see absolute disgust
I blame me when I shut down - unsure of who to trust
At times not even sure if I really know how to love

I blame me when my kids are crying out sick
because when I brought them here
I knew that this world was unfit
Yet overpowered by my love for them 
I became more and more protective
So I blame myself in advance for their sadness
when they finally see that the world is not objective

I blame me for those nights I can't rest
Wondering if my consciousness has finally realized
that I have done my best
to stay positive and have good intentions
So I blame myself when I give in to temptations and my human inhibitions
and begin to feel ashamed of myself
I begin to feel like I don't have enough strength to love myself
good things don't happen for me
So I blame me for my thinking and feelings of worthlessness

It's a big world and my lonely soul has no more confidence
I have nothing
I have given up 
and so I blame me for my incompetence and my soul's rut

Copyright © humble b

Details | Quatrain | |

All The Way Live


                                      So we're on the brink of a new weekend;
                                       And I'm ready for the guests to arrive.
                                          Come Friday everything will begin;
                                                  Let's go all the way live.

                                                     ©2014 Honestly JT

Copyright © Honestly J.T.

Details | ABC | |

Someone Elses Life

I feel like I'm living someone elses life, a life in strife. I've been strong, but when will I belong. I feel so alone, but I'm doing ok on my own. I can't describe the pain, but I keep in mind every storm runs outa rain. I use to think our love was unbeatable, but really its unforgettable. Everyday I walk down memory lane, trying to ignore the pain. He crosses my mind everyday, when will all this go away. There's gotta be something more, my heart is becoming sore. My momma doesn't have to worry, because I'm not sorry. I know he made the mistake, and he's the reason I have this heartache. What we had, was bad. I shouldn't have let it go that far, your just another scar.

Copyright © Kierstein McFarland

Details | Dramatic Verse | |

Emotional Hole

I did not find myself to be so important
So I ask my friends do I seem distant?
When I ask the question I had received an answer, Yes
So I think that made it clear that I had been not the best
I am a friend of a friend that talks so many things
That friend talks to much it is insane and insanity it brings
I do care, about my friends they are all good people
They tend to stand on their high steeple 
Today I find myself not so aware
Disbanding my fear of regret and care
Walking many different paths I see that I have found holes
It is the path that people choose to use to fuel their rage with coals
Coals are partially burnt wood or fossils a piece of fuel
It is the source of burden and fire a rage of emotions that stands cruel
It can be warm and caring, but it also can be baring
I just start to feel so low, below the ground I keep on staring
I reach for my friends so many times I feel so ignorant at times
Just once I feel I should not rely on them when feeling I can not find 
I dig my hole deeper and I can not climb out
For some reason I am just full of doubt
I care about so many things and what I have is confusion
One person should be all I should think about to get out of that illusion
My battle in my heart and mind is not at all so pleasant
I feel so alone in an island that is shaped like a crescent
My emotions is like coinciding with a diameter of the semicircle
Not a full emotion that is complete like a circle
My feelings is circular full of incomplete thoughts, so much deeper
I feel it will wake up my evil half a evil soul that is a sleeper
What question should I ask myself? to believe that I am not so alone
As I feel like a person who is deteriorating to the bone
I ask my friends the same question once again
I figure I should do it, to know what kind of feelings I should end
So many thoughts that come out of my feeling
I feel like my friends take, an emotional trauma of stealing
They ask me questions and I answer theirs
But when I need mine answered I feel burning inside like a flare
Are they even friends when they do not take me serious in anyway
Just put me in my hole cause I feel nothing in their will be getting in my way
It's just so simple to answer someones problem
I answer friends with beauty of a rose, but when they answer mine I get the stem
I know the stem is very important in life, with out it how can a rose be a rose
With a hole to put the root and stem in how can it grow
The words we speak I guess is like all natural things we reap and sow

Copyright © Reynaldo Mast

Details | I do not know? | |

For Anene Booysen 1996 - 2013

Hamba Kahle Anene Booysen! (1996 – 2013)

Dead at 17, brutally raped and left to die,
in the dirt,


at a construction site in Bredasdorp.


‘horrific’, ‘repulsed’,
‘brutally raped’, ‘shocked’,


do these words mean anything,
to anyone,



Not to Anene Booysen,


murdered at 17, brutally raped and left to die,

in the dirt,


at a construction site in Bredasdorp.


Anene was raped,
savagely mutilated,


Her 17 year old body tossed aside,


by the hands of men.


Men, always men,


cowardly, beastly, perverted, twisted men.


‘Beastly’, ‘perverted’, ‘twisted’,


do these words mean anything,
to anyone,



Not to Anene Booysen,


who now lies cold and dead.


How many Anene Booysens will it take,


for us,






men, especially men,


to excise the ghastly menace,


of the heinous capacity that resides,


within men,


always men,


to brutalise, rape, mutilate, and murder.


‘Brutalise’, ‘murder’, ‘rape’,


do these words mean anything,
to anyone,



Not to Anene Booysen,


murdered at 17, brutally raped and left,


to die,


in the dirt,


at a construction site,


in Bredasdorp.



Anene Booysen
(1996 – 2013)


* – Hamba Kahle – “Farewell, Travel Well” in Zulu


** – Bredasdorp is a small town near Cape Town, South Africa

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims

The Cowardice of the Taliban and The Silence of The Good Muslims.

When hot lead tears the flesh of a 14 year old girl,

ripping through her skull,
leaving her to bleed out and die,

does Allah not recoil in horror,

to see His child whimper,
to see His daughter cry.

Where is the indignation,

the anger that often boils over and manifests itself as flags and books and videos are burnt in mass orgies of hollow piety,

where are the voices that scream so loud,
that denounce all but their own creed,

where are the men, the impotent men who crave for nothing more than their fascist egos to feed,

where are the voices that so loudly proclaim,
enemies here and enemies there, always quick to condemn,

where are those voices when the enemy walks amongst them.

14 year old Malala Yousafzai was shot in cold blood,

her crime?

Advocating the rights of girls to an education.

Shame on you, men of bigotry and men of cowardice.

Shame on you, silent and mute accomplices in this carnage.

Shame on me,
for my inaction,

Shame on us all,
who proclaim lofty ideals,

yet are conspicuously silent,

when a 14 year old girl is shot in the head,

by fascist fundamentalist bigots who only worship bullets of hot lead.

Not in my name!

Not in my name,
shall the cowardly men rain down abuse,

Not in my name,
shall the bigoted men light the communalistic fuse,

Not in my name,
shall Malala Yousafzai be shot in the head,

left to bleed out,
while countless mothers' tears are shed,

not in my name,
shall religious murderers,
be left to wander free,

not in my name,
for I dare all believers to open their eyes,
to see!

To see,
the innocence of a 14 year old girl,
wanting only an education,

as the men of the cloth,
prance around with their pathetic self-righteous indignation.

I write this today,
the anger raging in my veins,

yet I fear,

that I shall write more of this,

unless we stand up and say 'no more',

I fear that I shall be writing this again,

until we all,

reclaim the true principles of humaneness,

until we silence the voices of bigotry,
of rage,
of fanatical insanity,

I fear I shall be writing this again,


until the muck-ridden bile,
is not excised,

I shall continue to say,


Or else I shall have nothing,

but my unending shame.

(for Malala Yousafzai, 14 years old, in a critical condition after being shot in the head by the Pakistani Taliban, for her work as a young activist advocating the rights of girls to attend school)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses