I was sitting in the crowded train station with time to waste, waiting on the train to take me home on Christmas Eve. A very pretty, young lady, carrying a full backpack headed for one of the only open seats across the aisle from me next to a rather dirty and disheveled older man.
As she removed her backpack to sit down he glared up at her; she smiled a beautiful bright smile and said to him, “Merry Christmas”.
“I don’t celebrate Christmas”, he barked up at her.
“Yeah? Well, that doesn’t mean you can’t be happy on the day that I celebrate Christmas. And I hope the day is merry for you as well.”
“What is there to be merry about”, he moaned, “A bunch of hypocritical religious zealots pretending to be nice to one another while the world goes to hell in a hand basket.”
“Well, at least for that one day, most of us believe the hypocrisy, and even for just a few hours, we practice the morals that our religion tries to instill in us. At least on that one day, for us religious zealots, there is a glimmer of hope that we can save the world from going to hell and, I, for one, believe that is reason to be merry.”
“Terrific! And, what does that get me,” he whimpered.
“Well, what you get is this one time of year, when a twenty-two year old college girl is not afraid to sit next to you; smile at you; and, wish you a Merry Christmas. And, if you just say, ‘Thank you’ and ‘Merry Christmas’ back to her, she just may give you the biggest and best kiss you have ever experienced.”
She stood back up and started to put her backpack back on as he simply stared up at her. Once she was situated and ready to move on towards her train, she stopped; smiled at him again; and, said, “Merry Christmas.”
It seems I was not the only stranger that was witnessing this exchange. All of those around me were perched on the edge of their seats waiting to see what might happen. The old man cracked a little smile. A glimmer came to his eyes, and he said, “Thank you. And, Merry Christmas to you, too.”
The girl leaned down and planted a kiss right on his lips for what seemed like ten minutes. Smiles lit up the faces of all the men, women and children watching this take place. When the girl finally pulled back, the old man was frozen in place with a big ole smile on his face. She adjusted her backpack and started heading towards the tracks. All the men she passed on her way who witnessed this exchange anxiously yelled, “Merry Christmas” as she passed, hoping for a kiss as well.
I looked back at the old man who was still in a dream. Suddenly he caught me looking at him and barked, “What are you staring at?”
I just shook my head back and forth and said, “Merry Christmas”.
“Yeah! Well Merry Christmas to you, too” he shouted.
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2012
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 | Year Posted 2013
I do not know?
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,
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,
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 fanatical insanity,
I fear I shall be writing this again,
until the muck-ridden bile,
is not excised,
I shall continue to say,
NOT IN MY NAME!
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 | Year Posted 2013
I walk outside to see all that I can see.
Over there is our house, our home,
In the distance, you can see.
And that place of hallowed happiness
Forever has been our home
And forever will be so evermore.
That house is small but raised us tall,
From the perfect parents who loved us so
To the perfect sister for which every man would want.
The house built us all up strong.
More than a mere building,
It is a place to love and be loved,
A place that hands you hope that you give right back,
And a place of everlasting faith.
This home is where my parents taught me about God
And opened me up to Jesus.
They opened the eyes of the blind for all to see,
And the blind included me.
They taught me to be the best I can be;
The best things in life are free.
They have taught us so well,
And they all have saved my soul.
Even if I am not there now,
I carry Him with me.
I carry them with me.
I carry Their values and Their teachings with me.
In this house, this home,
We cannot forget this.
This is where my Mother lives.
This is where my Father lives.
This is where my Sister lives.
This is where We live,
In this loving, caring, beautiful home
They made just for us.
We cannot forget this either.
This is where it all began.
This is where the hunger and thirst was created;
This is where we are fulfilled.
We cannot, we must not forget this:
This is where God lives.
This is where Jesus lives.
This is where The Lord lives;
The Father and The Almighty.
This is where We live;
This is where We reside.
We must not forget this.
We must not forget this:
What a beautiful and perfect life this is.
Copyright © Kevin C. Martin | Year Posted 2012
In an orb of knowledge, walks a colored girl.
Her celestial being is ethereal.
Abreast is she of her past but fragile to the imminence.
Her strides are hindered because once she was poor and her life was lost in that
In the present day, she is born to be a rich woman.
Her compositions oeuvres her as a legacy lost.
Her cognizance delineates her as a renowned Poetess.
She remembers herself as well spoken.
Prestige she was given by her family.
However, she was born in the time of human suffering.
An antiquated being esteemed to write is this girl in her reincarnated life.
She was born before her time and now the good Lord has revitalized.
Metaphysically she conceives vivacity.
With effervescence learnt, her vim and vigor are expressed through her lexes.
The echoes of her thoughts are parrots.
Emotionally she enters her past life and begins to compose the opus.
Her perception manifests the images of her verses.
A modern day Poetess against subversion is a Poetry Diva verge of curses.
POETRY DIVA - OBLIVION DARK SUNSHINE - VERLENA S. WALKER
PENNED ON JUNE 21, 2014!
In Truth and Integrity, this is ambiences of the author's connection to her past life.
Copyright © Verlena S. Walker | Year Posted 2014
Kara Joy is what we named her
Not so very long ago,
But as long as I remember
I’ve called her Kara Jo
Now you could say the acorn
Didn’t fall far from the tree,
Cause what you get with Kara Jo
Is a pretty, female, “me”
We share a love for reading
And movies, good or bad,
And she can spin a story
Again, just like her dad
No, we’re not carbon copies
One look will tell you that,
Because she’s young and beautiful
I’m getting old and fat
She has her way of doing things
And doing things her way,
And if she thinks that way is right
She’s kind of hard to sway
Much like her aging father
It seems to be the case,
“If everyone were more like us
It would be a better place”
She’d follow me when she was small
Trailing close behind,
But one dark day, life got real hard,
And we lost so much time
We went from daily interaction
To every now and then,
And if I’ve known a greater pain
I couldn’t tell you when
Sometimes I’d text her in the night
To say she made me proud,
In those times of darkened silence
That were deafeningly loud
She got her scars and bruises
Most I knew not of,
But in my ignorance and absence
I did my best to show my love
We both walked down some rugged roads
That led us from the Lord,
But in the end she set the standard
For me to strive toward
She left her pain and turned to God
I stayed beneath its cloud,
Sometimes at night she’d send me texts
To say I made her proud
By faith she did amazing things
I remember to this day
She prayed for a stranger’s broken-down car
He got in and drove away
I’ve watched her take some hard life blows
And still do the best she can,
Unaware that she inspires me
To be a better man
I turned my blessings into curses
And struggled through each day,
She turned a “curse” into a blessing
And named her Rylie Jae
She’s watched me through my failures
And saw me when I’d fall,
And she always tried in her own way
To help me through it all
“Pure Delight” is what her name means
And it has proven so
But until the day I’m no longer here
I’ll call her Kara Jo
Copyright © Brian Wallace | Year Posted 2013