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Social Name Poems | Social Poems About Name

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Kis

A Kis



 Do eye need a kis. Eye need a girl to kis. Eye have a girl that eye can kis. 
Eye have kis her in the rain. Eye have kis her in mye heart. Eye have kis her in 
mye start of every day for years of love. Eye have only to the kis to go to read more 
into kis to find the place she dwells in this old mortal frame of yearning 
dwelling place. The kis is purple bliss of alarm blazing love waking me from 
death like a Snow White Charmed young man a captive smith to Pocahontas 
fame. A dandelion flower lost in the caverns of the depths Ianthe drowning mee 
in sea ward tufts of left and right bouts of beating on the air to keep from sliding 
to the depths of drowning in her arms of love. A leap at faith a death reprieved 
from Grounded Grave a leaping portent making waves of Gragon wings. An 
attitude of love refrained in every tuft of wind again the sound of love the beating 
of the water on the roof of tin the sound of kis inside the wind and rain. A younger 
man and woman would have hardware in the way the nose and yes the nose gay 
and the corners of the vampyrific fangs. The center of the tongue is one the belly 
button too. The snooker table has a cue it’s called the ball extender bridge it's a 
cheater it’s made to let the basest man to reach her in the wind. There is so 
many problems with people the gas is oughta sight at the pumps this country is 
no longer prominent but a third world country going south. The end of time has 
come and arrived the ruthless and worthless rule in the name of god money and 
time. Take a number wait in line what’s your name please fill this out and wait. 
The number of his namme. Have you got a credit card or payment of any kind iff 
you can give me seven dollars for an office visit eye will help you the doctor is inn. 
The man was lighting a candle in front of the computer and the lieberrian asked 
him what do you think you are doing he said eye cannot see the screen. There is 
not very many rich people in all those cars on the highway whizzing by the most of 
them is middle class or less the plastic hose on the back seat is a siphon they 
use it to get gas. Eye had too many problems at home growing up to ever be a 
father. The age factor plus the drug indicator keeps me from trying to further my 
benefactor with fodder or with mudder. The morality of this hurried fable of 
dividing documents is this a kis. 


Copyright © charles hice

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 | 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 | Free verse | |

Bladder Problems in Class

Numbers on 
White board…names written hori-

Students ask
To go pee…right when class starts – 
THAT’S just wrong…

Bathroom line
Of students who have bladder
Problems – WOW!

People are
Not using lunchtime to do 
Their business 

No one knows
When to do their duties – SER-

Copyright © J. W. M. Earnings

Details | Haiku | |

The Internet: Return

A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...

Copyright © Dan Keir

Details | Alliteration | |

Her name is Poverty

She tells me, 
Of the belt of hunger that clings to her waist, 
Of how it's only ever loosened by rampaging and rummaging through waste.

She tells me,
How her journey through payments, predicaments and pavements make her tire,
How her cracked feet and wracked heart are passed by Tyre after Tyre.

She tells me, 
About the intricate diagnoses and prognoses that riddle her every fiber, vessel and vein, 
About the cardboard pleas and pleads that have all been in vain.

She tells me,
That this is the existence her weeping womb has bred,
That her hope for her successors is that they may succeed her in the fight for bread.

She tells me,
Her name is poverty.
Do you remember her?

Copyright © Jessica Goldstone

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 | Dramatic Verse | |

The number the brand

When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child,  chai .

I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met 
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .

Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?

It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History 
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .

The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.

It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing ,  cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .

There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love,  and reunited with the ones they lost .

The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time . 
You could not,  but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see . 
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet,  of the Hostility .

I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish,  chosen Religion.

There as I held her frail , old hand  , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago .   In 1945  , once in our distant, yet Frightening  past . 

We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
                                " Etta Babooshka Kofman  "

Copyright © Shanity Rain

Details | Tanka | |

The Virtuous White Rose

--**--The Virtuous White Rose--**--

White rose is holy
Matrimony pureness of
Bond between lovers.
Blessing  to Old Rome deceased’s
Chastity and innocence.

White Rose in myth and
Legend was tainted by blood,
Made blush from kiss, thus
Made it red and made it pink
Against its pride purity.

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole

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 | Sonnet | |

Generation XXX

Generation XXX
(Another Name for Gen Y(My Generation)

Beer goggles and Whiskey Rivers,
Pain numbing remedies that exude depression,
Marijuana oxygen and pain killer shivers,
Innocent faces with devilish expression,
Blood red eyes with cocaine explanations,
White lies, cooked up in haste, 
For the aforementioned, sell your feelings for a taste!

Young lady, young lady, impossible to find,
What has become of “Daddy’s Little Girl?”
Grew up as billboard, all body and no mind,
Succumbed to degradation just to fit in this world,
Princess? No More!
With bitter wounds and sans support,
Responds to “bxxch” labeled as “whore”
Sex for poison and sex for sport!

Young man, young man, could you bear to walk alone?
With choreographed legs and clay molded spine?
Quoting the majority, speaking with your friends’ tone,
Holding onto shirttails while blindly disregarding lines,
Unprotected sex just to help you feel alive,
Forced to buy diapers with the pennies you have earned,
From one into intoxicated night you did not want to be deprived,
Came a baby by a girl whose name you had to learn!

Young lady, Young man, both working like a slave,
To provide for a family that neither wished to know,
They scream as their dreams get sealed within a grave,
Essential sacrifices because the baby has to grow,
A self-destructive generation, corrupted and vexed,
Generation Y, is Generation XXX

Copyright © Audonus Taylor

Details | Free verse | |

Mummy had Stitched His Name Onto the Back of His PE Bag

He hung out alone in his room most of the time
with his door locked,quiet.
He had a name. A short and simple one, that nobody could remember. Maybe it was Ken, or 
Tom - something like that.
Yeah, the boy everybody made fun of
beacuse his Mummy had stiched his name onto the back of his PE bag.
Not just that, he had all his books perfectly coverered, I remember beacuse I used to hand 
them out in the mornings.

He never came back to school after the holidays.
Jess said it was because he got sent to juvie for trying to butcher his Mum with the garden 
spade. She heard that he was one of those "messed up kids," who finally flipped out. Huey, 
agreed and said that it was only a matter of time before it happened. 
According to Mia, she heard that his Mum was just standing there, when he came up from 
behind and attacked her. She heard there was blood all over the place. 

Everyone heard everything.

When our teacher came over to ask who we were talking about,
Jess said Ken.
Huey said Tom.
Mia said Bill.

Confused, they stared at eachother
then turned to the class, perhaps searching for the answer.
Everyone else, shrugged.

Copyright © Francesca Cabral

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 | Rhyme | |

I Heard Jesus Call My Name

I Heard Jesus Call My Name… I heard Jesus call my name just the other day. I told him. “Not now!” “Just go away!” It was his voice. It was clear and imminent. I was just “too busy”. This was evident! Why should I care? Why should I listen? There’s too many things, I don’t want to be missin’! I know that he is near me.. His voice beckons… Obeying his voice is an important lesson! It’s so difficult for me to trust and obey. I’m “preoccupied” twenty four hours a day! This life I have. I know that God has given. I haven’t included him in, the way I’ve been livin’! Perhaps I’ll do it tomorrow. Some other time. Maybe he’ll call another name. And not mine! God realizes the mess that I’ve gotten myself in. “Some other day,” I’ll try calling for him. I know that he loves me and wants the very best. If I answer his voice. My life will be blessed! I’ve changed my mind! Lord… Here I am! Please take my life and take my hand! I’ll do what you ask. I’ll listen to your voice. This is the best decision. This is the best choice! Thank you Lord for being so patient and kind! For you're my beloved and you're mine! By Jim Pemberton 11/23/11

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

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

Details | Kyrielle | |

Not in God's Name

Protestant, Catholic, Mormon, Jew – 

I understand your point of view.

If you can’t mine – well, that’s a shame.

No “holy” war is in God’s name.


Islam means “peace”.  We all want that.

Meet the Quakers.  Be friends and chat.

Buddhist, Hindu – we’re all the same.

No “holy” war is in God’s name.


Jehovah’s Witness to a Sikh:

Sisters and brothers, let us speak.

It’s not a case of placing blame.

No “holy” war is in God’s name.


“An ye harm none, do as ye will.”

The Wiccan Rede, we must fulfill.

Let peace on Earth become our aim.

No “holy” war is in God’s name. 

Copyright © Paula Puddephatt

Details | I do not know? | |

MLK - 1929 - 1968

(January 15, 1929 – April 4, 1968)

they shot you down
all those years ago


your dream lives on
and always will

for though much has been
gained since you dreamed
your dream

there is much to fight for
and much more to struggle for

and much, much more
to fight for still

your dream resounds in
our hearts and we pledge 
this to you today
for though they shot you down
all those years ago on a memphis day
we shall overcome
this we do believe
deep in our hearts
we shall overcome

(for Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.)

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | I do not know? | |

For They Are Many And Legion Is There Name

standing at the edge of no more time
I see the bottom of the grave 

it looks, of mud and cold without no rest in place 
malted ice flakes dancing in snow-ish rain  

i will not move 
no i can not move 
fear has taken over me

how cold 
how sad 
i do not know how to fight
this demon, who is not a demon 
but the DEVIL him self
he has a head 
with eyes and ears 
who do not get caught
for They Are Many 
and i am only one 

trust no one....
is not just a saying 
but a truth to live by 
for they know the price of blood 
and will sell out all who get in their way 

"My name is Legion, for we are many"
"Nomen mihi Legio est, quia multi sumus"(In Latin)

Copyright © verlecia fields

Details | I do not know? | |

Killing in Allahs Name

Killing in Allah’s Name…


Pieces of burnt flesh,

in a school,
a market-place,
a temple,
a synagogue,
a mosque,
a church,

a man,
a woman,
a child,

charred hands, smouldering corpses, fractured bodies,
torn limbs,
dismembered human beings,

just human beings,

dead, murdered,

in Allah’s name…

…A 4 year old boy,
11 year old girl,
78 year old man,
40 year old mother of six,

killed, murdered,

in Allah’s name…

…Gandhi said ‘an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind’…


Complicit by my silence,

I stand in shame,

of the bigotry,
religious fanaticism,
wars of aggression,
invasions of distant countries,
flag-waving ‘my country right or wrong’,
blind nationalism,

perpetrated in my name…

…I refuse to be silent,
to be complicit,

while the slaughter continues,

each day,

in the name of god,
of country,
of creed,
of sexual-orientation,
of caste,

I refuse to be cowed,
to be complicit by my silence,

as the killing,
slaughtering continues…

…You who kill innocents,

you who shroud your slaughter in scripture,

you who drape your aggression in flags,

you who cloak your hate in anthems,

you who veil your intolerance in finely-tuned semantics,

you who bomb school-buses,

have lost.

…You may sow terror,

you may pound cities from afar,

you may wreak havoc,

yet you have lost,


you cannot kill us all!

We shall always be many, many more!


“…all that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good people to do nothing…” – Edmund Burke

Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses

Details | Personification | |


I am looking for dream interpreters.
My name is Goodluck
Don’t swear yet please, don’t “****”
I am no president or “less”
Neither am I clueless
Parents christened me Goodluck
So if there be name sake as me
Well, that is bad luck

Like I said,
I am looking for dream interpreters.
I had a dream last night
I saw ancestors.
Breathing fire like dynamite
Asked me if I am insensitive
Or just clueless
Out of respect for ancestors, I asked them
‘Insensitive to or in what?’
“Insensitive to or in what???”
Was their angered response
“Even in this, you are still clueless”?
Their lead speaker asked

“Okay, fine! Mr. clueless” he continued
Under your watchful eyes
The plane you are saddled with,
Cries out for a pilot
For the auto-pilot can’t land it
And you are a clueless pilot
The ship you are saddled with
Cries out for a captain
For you have broken the compass
And an inevitable sink might come to pass”.

“Mr. clueless” he continued again
The streets of Jos,
Blood has become a river.
Have you seen the butchered women…
Have you seen the opened bowels…
Slain infants.
Religious insurgencies on the instant
United Nations office and police headquarters
All crashed landed with a bang…bomb

Churches are smashed, even mosques
The blood rivers of Jos has flowed beyond us
Now, it’s a national flood above us
Yet your greed is on the oil well
You have weakness for debt accumulation

Your greatest height of insensitivity
What happened to profits of yester years?
Same old promise of good roads,
Good education, a better tomorrow
Yet, forty billion, a former house of reps
Single handedly stole it.
Are you leeches never ever tired of loots?
Or fear of insurgence of the deprived youths?

The people raped by empty promises of bandits
If you are in all these things clueless
Then our dreams for the country is hopeless
All leaders before you
Have creatively out done you
Hate has come to the surface
And you have lost your grace”.

Then from the dream, I woke up!
Somebody help!!!
I need dream interpreters.


Copyright © Isioma Esemene

Details | Sonnet | |

Gone Too Far

That’s not my elephant, officer, though she is pink.
She is right in front of your vehicle sir, I think.
Not too big, but not too small, her name is Ella.
I would say she likes to carry her pink umbrella.
I bet those second graders can see her just fine.
Yes, officer, I bet that they never drank any wine.
So to say, she is not there, will start some fights.
So remember that my faith is in the bill of rights.
She dances so fine around, around over the lot.
Upon tips of her toes, she cannot smoke pot.
However, she can eat spaghetti, with meatballs hot,
She loves to slurp, and swing the noodles in trot.
Don’t you see her now, over on top of that car?
Well, sir, you’re under arrest, you’ve gone too far.

Written for

Sponsor Matt Caliri 
Contest Name That's Not My Elephant 

Copyright © cecil hickman

Details | Rhyme | |

Click, click

Click click, that's the name of the game
Click click, you're going insane
Click click, is it nice outside?
Click click, should I even try?
Click click, it's the name of our generation
Click click, hypnotic masturbation
Click click, researching nonsense
Click click, losing my conscience
Click click, puppies and kittens
Click click, more statuses written
Click click, everyone has a voice
Click click, everyone has a choice
Click click, donate to causes
Click click, without hidden clauses
Click click, the world is becoming transparent
Click click, it's all so inherent
Click click, this is public domain
Click click, but please don't restrain
Click click, an abundance of trolls
Click click, did I just get rick rolled?

Copyright © Dustin Craig

Details | Dramatic monologue | |


The Doctor delivered the news
like a Court Judge
in a final death sentence verdict
"You are HIV positive!"
A the clinic corridor
the Nurses had gathered
Like Eagles converging on carcasses
they fed fat on my 'pitiable' frame
muterring and whispering in low voices
"that's the lady"
"the new member of the club"
At home, in the living room
the family gathered in dead silence
mother wept, as if mourning my death
"all my efforts down  the drain", she wailed and wailed
father gazed at me
like a psychiatric home returnee
"what a terrible end!", he lamented
At work, in the open office
my table enjoyed expanse of space
"Hi!", they would wave at me from afar
To call my name was like catching the virus
they would rather die than shake my hands
In our street
people peep behind the windows blinds
"don't you ever go near!"
parents warned their children and wards
many fingers pointed at me wherever i turn
"see the results of promiscuity"
they'd say to themselves
in the local shop
i need not to queue
"just come over here awhile, my dear"
the shopowner would cajole
giving me special treatment, i never got before
everywhere i turn and go
i have a name tag
and see huge price tag
of being an unfortunate victim of HIV/AIDS

Copyright © ifedayo oshin

Details | Ode | |



He was renowned for farming 
ploughing lands as large as atlantic  
but his harvests he keeps beyond the sea
beyond the sea all he got

Down here, his roof leaks
his town roads untared
they make use of his wealth
to paint their town more white

he thinks his wealth is safe 
but the value they use
promising him security and secrecy
to shut their mouth from his people

his pots occupied
by cockroach and rats
as had been aboandoned by his wife
his children grow everyday
developing big belly and head

He goes back to use ibeleju as lamp
but he claims to be rich
his children goes fishing to pay their fees
the school fees he has refused to pay

they built a school for their wards
and beg them to look inside papers
nobody pays a penny
those are the people beyond the sea

his wealth is intact
but had been used
times without number for their anuual budget
they beyond the seas

Worms leak his intestine
and his offsprings from six to two
he took their looks to the people
the people beyond the sea

they gave him a name "Malaria"
Malaria took them all
contented he came
carring no less for his kwashiokor wards

His bicycle like buried iron
yet he appears before his kinsmen
to speak in language that tingles
they smirk at him

though the gods let him live
his expliots and wealth
managed and utilized by the people
the people beyond the sea

he claims to be learned
while they have brain washed him
he trusted them
and left our heritage

the gods forbide
our black heritage
that our fathers died to protect
like our brotherly love

Our heritage
that forbade greed
he forgot our maxim
that of Unison

him that our fathers gave the "Ofor"
the Ofor that represents power
power to protect our interest
our black interest

the gods bear us witness
witness of our unquenched suffering
starving in front of plenty
plenty at the so called bank

banks beyond the sea banks
the name for their civilised theft
theft because they use the value
the value of your wealth
to reinforce themselve

the Ofor has fallen
from his hands
the gods has departed  from him
but he will not believe

our chambers now lagoons
lagoons from the light shawers
our tables now canoes
and soup spoons paddle

mosquitoes now our pets
nursing our children
our working age amended
starting from 6  to sleep

our heads now bald
not from age
but from fetching water
water from the eden 

Copyright © Magnus Nwagu Amudi Esq

Details | Rhyme | |

Jesus Your Name I Will Cherish

Jesus, Your Name I Will Cherish!

Jesus...  Your name I will 
always cherish.
Without you.  I would 
certainly perish.

Knowing you has been a delight!
You are with me,
Each day and night!

YOU are my best friend! 
 God's precious son.
My daily provider!.  
The all sufficient one.

You loved me!
When I was lonely and sad.
I have joy and happiness,
 I once never had.

You are my savior and best friend!.
That's why I fall in love with you
 all over again.

Your life, for mine,
 is what you provided!
Living for you, 
Is what I decided!!

By Jim Pemberton

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

Details | Sonnet | |

Sarah Kendricks

Sarah a name that means a princess in noble birth,
Along with biblical experiences of religious worth,
Reading her work one can tell of her tenderness.
A real poetess that has such natural cleverness,
Here and now I dedicate this for her gentleness.

Kindness she has shared with all so generous.
Each word I write without ever meeting her.
Never speaking to her, I know many concur.
Dedicating a sonnet is more then she expects.
Reality is, this will never show what she reflects.
I saw her sonnet was waiting to be written true.
Carefully I read her words, to get honest clue.
Kindness, blessed imagination her poetry thru,
Sincerely, I hope she enjoys this poetry I do.

written for
Sponsor Brian Strand 
Contest Name 1-14 any theme /form max 14 LINES  

Dedicated to Sara Kendrick

sorry somehow my writing software changed your name and I did not notice until after I wrote it in an Acrostic Sonnet poem as well....

Copyright © cecil hickman

Details | Ballad | |

The Hot Dog man

His name is Jane F he is the hot dog man Mac a Nation
creation, the hot dog man, His name is jane F and  he
is lunch money for Satans men,  Mac a Nation creation
his is the hot dog man, Mac a Nation creation and
jane F  wants Hot Dogs for Satan men, Mac a Nation
Creation what is is Mac Nation Creation what is is
Moral Moral or surival surival moral moral surival
is the hot dog man here macanation surival moral 
do you have surival or morals mac a nation creation
its the hot dog man lunch money money honey honey
darlin darlin it lunch money oh honey

Copyright © diane henning

Details | Ballad | |


He keeps a very low profile,
afraid of the the horrible secret he hides;
hooked on a daily dosage of cocaine...
seeking an instant relief from his acute pain!
His cramped den is the stench
of smoked substance bought on drug-infested streets,
and filth is the undeniable evidence:
one can surely tell that he lives in Hell...
red devilish eyes and sunken cheeks; 
a wasted mind and body meeting their end!   

Restless young man without a name,
wary of the destructible consequences
that stunt your unremorseful conscience;
and what price will you pay and whom will you blame?
Restless young man without a name,
you only existed to fulfill a destiny of shame! 

Day-time is so detestable to him,
more than the viciousest enemy;
night-time changes his personality...  
and he searches for dope down-town,
where the houses are so run-down...
occupied by the crack-heads of East Main!
A limping kid, from nowhere, hands him
a small bag and he exchanges it for some green;
and what started the urge within...
is a deep wound, which can never heal! 

Restless young man without a name, 
intoxicated by the poison that destroys your life and health;
you can't be aware of what distorts your weak senses...
until you are helpless and run out of breath! 
Restless young man without a name,
guiltless and allow death to happily dance!

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | I do not know? | |

Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mother Mary

Angel Gabriel sent from God the Eternal Father
The virgin’s name was Mary
Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with you
The angel said to her “Do not be afraid Mary”

“You have found favor with God”
“You will conceive in your womb and bear a son”
“You shall name Him Jesus”
He will be great and son of the most High

Of His kingdom, there will be no end
Mary said to angel
How can this be
Since I have no relations with a man

The Holy Spirit will come upon you
The power of the most High will overshadow you
I am the handmaid of the Lord
Be it done to me according to your word


Copyright © Jacqueline R. Mendoza

Details | Rhyme | |

Lord How Wonderful Is Your Name

Lord…  How Wonderful Is Your Name!

Lord…  How wonderful is your name!
I invite you into my life to reign!

Lord…  How beautiful is your name!
With you…  My life is never the same!

Lord…  How majestic is your name!
It was for I…  That to earth you came!

Lord…  How wonderful your really are!
Your glory shines brighter than a star!

Lord…  How precious you are to me!
Your spirit has come and blessed me!

Lord…  I surely love and appreciate you!
You’re the only one I can always turn to!

Lord…  I worship and honor you forever!
You’re robed with glory and splendor!

Lord…  You are Jesus.  The great I AM!
Everything I go through…  You understand!

Lord…  All of my needs…  You supply!
And give rivers of living 
water to satisfy!

Lord…  To your words,
 may I be quick to listen!
There’s nothing from you… 
 I want to be missin’!

By Jim Pemberton

Copyright © Jim Pemberton