I walk the city streets with heavy feet,
drawn in grave thoughts of all I dare not ask
of kings watching on high with hearts concrete,
and sons who taunt from eyes through steely masks.
Their laws are not the laws of decent men.
These tyrants rule steadfast with ill-intent.
Like Herod’s bloody rule in Bethlehem,
the massacred are fallen innocent.
And when shall I awaken with my voice,
to speak for those who have no voice to tell
of brutal acts and minds without the choice,
to think of life above the depths of hell?
Still, heavy are my feet with soul and heart
as lips in protest slowly start to part.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2014
Saddam Hussein has outlived all adjectives,
A demagogue, an anti-Christ, a dictator
Was he the hero larger-than-life images
A tyrant, Baghdad butcher, a monster.
Raising one’s voice against him will result in,
One’s daughter raped before his own eyes
Even they can lead a Kurdish woman
To sell her body to feed her two kids
One leader for heroism lampooned as a clown,
The Second, no doubt, a salesman of used cars.
The third, waging bloody wars, seeks the crown,
Fake cries, political motives, baking their breads
Undoubtedly it is about the politics of oil surely
Man who raised Saddam became a Saddam purely?.
Third Place winner
Contest: Devil made me do it by Thvia Jetley
Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2010
Note : as an experiment i took a random article from the newspaper and extracted phrases from it to eventually form this sonnet. A fun exercise!
Economic purists say, relief should,
Never have been given in the first place.
Whether that is true or not, perception,
Has always been politically good.
Sensitive issues, as they have and could,
Ever been percieved as assisting in grace.
Relief to be aboloshed! Reflection –
Affordability is understood.
However, now it is to be removed,
People shouldn’t get alarmed, the market
Change to this would deem, respite is disproved.
Any mortgage taken out – we regret.
For seven tax years by that date – and yet
We believe this is the case – hmmm, approved!
Copyright © David Byrne | Year Posted 2010
Will liberty ring out again,
beneath the cries of human rights
can freedom's name survive,
dissembling and lies;
Will duty from its prison flee
throw off its shackled memory,
is respect just a word,
spoken,but never heard:
How long,how long 'til I becomes thee ?
when ,when, will ego bend the knee,
the victim is not me
my friend,my friend,it's we.
Who rings this bell of liberty
truly sounds,our culture's death knell.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2010
THE BOMBING OF DRESDEN
February 13, 1945
Pathfinders lit the night to show the way
for bombardiers too hungry for the word;
as Dresden's dark was made as light as day,
all hearts were stopped before the blasts were heard;
and as the din was heard by all their ears
the sound it made was not reality
but far removed from all the hopes and fears
and what they thought would never come to be.
They loved the Fuhrer--sin enough for all
to die the fiery death of sweet revenge
brought on by those who had enough of gall
to drop their loads in wartimes heated binge!
And when the fire consumed all that it could
the winter of their lives was understood.
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2012
Through the warm jungle you can hear every cry.
Crackling gunfire trickles in the echoes;
Why this place fell and crumbled, no one knows why.
There they all fall in place like a domino.
Welcome to the jungle, filled with death and ill.
A jungle of fear, a few dare to challenge.
A smoke, a radio, anything to kill;
At times, there were fires that went unchallenged.
The smell of sulfur roams through this jungle air.
A surplus supply of shell rounds in the jeep.
Bugs, trash, dirty clothes, all I see everywhere.
The monumental hill is too big and steep.
Men were lost, but never forgotten prayers.
Some make it home; some make there way up the stairs.
Copyright © Trent Turney | Year Posted 2015
No more this verdant sight no more the sound
No more the heart of mist at nature’s dawn
No more victims of constant pressure found
No more the fool of man’s enactment borne.
To worship a foundation so ancient
The last bastion of one’s ancestor
Then one bears scars of prudence so poignant
When complied to appease the molester.
Our Fathers who wove within nature’s loom
So soon eras of memories destroyed
When at the mercy of Europe’s new broom
Leaving many dreams retrenched redeployed.
Hearts and minds linger still at Purple Haze
Ghostly cascades of falling tears amaze!
For all the farmers systematically force from their lands
in a orchestrated albeit subtle way
after the UK joined the European common market 1970's
A Poem about of one of those farms "Purple Haze"
Copyright HarryJ Horsman 2010
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2011
The faded shacks stretch 'neath the stained grey sky,
As stagnant urine and disease creep in.
Hunched at the pyramid's tight base we lie;
Looked down upon by our superiors.
In this poor life we’ve been condemned to die;
Forever stuck in our unwanted caste!
Our tummies are filled with what can’t be sold,
Our hopes and dreams just playful fantasies.
Drained from its soothing warmth, the Earth feels cold.
Where, I ask you are the democracies
That stop worthless things like me getting sold?
We’re all just pawns, broken by society.
Unlike the wealthy, we’re easy to find;
We are the untouchables of mankind.
Copyright © Jasmine Khurana | Year Posted 2015
The weather will soon be getting warmer.
Watching economics and politics,
I’m teaching myself to be a farmer--
Anticipating an Apocalypse.
It’s time to rototill my backyard lawn,
And remove decorative plants and weeds.
My ‘raised bed’ ‘square foot’ garden plans are drawn;
Ready to plant heirloom vegetable seeds.
It’s time we start providing for ourselves!
The government’s nearly in bankruptcy.
It’s foolish to expect grocery store shelves
To have food during a catastrophe.
Go buy your trellises and garden string.
Plant your future meals, because here comes Spring.
Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2015
Why does hatred bloom where two lovers stand
vowing only to cherish each other forever?
When it is love and hope that brought them together,
why do hoards of people want their union banned?
Just because it is a love they cannot understand?
Does it somehow make their lives a little bit better
keeping different drummers from marrying ever?
And here I thought we lived in a free land.
Why must we put restrictions on how people love?
Why does homosexuality scare people so?
Consenting adults should be allowed their own choice.
I’ll leave moral judgment to the heavens above,
but this is one thing that I certainly now know -
a union of any two lovers is a cause to rejoice.
Written and posted on 4/29/2014 for Craig Conrish's "Miltonic Sonnet" contest.
Copyright © Joe Flach | Year Posted 2014
How will it be to have freed the weak
to stand as their sword, to carry their shield
how will it be to see their tremble revealed.
Imperialist power court with cheek
the downtrodden fools whose wealth they all seek.
America, Russia, China concealed
that their help came with poisoned wells and fields
that the air can burn, the fish die in creeks
ask 'Nam how freedom was bought and brought.
Go to Tibet, feel the Communist zeal
the temples they have felled make farmyard walls.
Have the strong helped the weak, power's begot
pain, let the weak grow strong, let them not kneel,
if you ask for help, the wolf hears your calls.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2014
I gots to go on down to Applebees.
I gots to watch the big game on TV.
Oh, its much better than January's
Superbowl, March Madness, the history
of boxing or Tiger Woods teeing up.
We'll toss down a couple of brews and eat
our way through the evening hour and top
it all off with a chocolate dessert.
All the while on the overhead teevees
we'll watch our boys, the desert commandos
rush over the dunes on their neato humvees,
and shock and awe those Bhagdad a--holes
with our technology.Tonight we will
root for our side to bomb them all to hell.
Copyright © ahellas Alixopulos | Year Posted 2007
COLD WAR ARTIST
The art of such intention is fatigue
At living lies outside the scope of death,
To wear in the last blitzkrieg
A shroud meaning artist, a wreath
Of columbine in the hair, but the kitchen eyes,
Carbuncled knees betray the giver’s art.
Down on the doorstep, she’ll scrub your lies:
To her gift of total self she’ll add a part -
Your own tongue sliced and severed on her plate
Of 20th century design – taste
The dust of pointillism, the cubist fate
Of newspaper and cello here embraced –
The emptiness filched from the master’s past:
Mankind’s death wishes, home to roost at last.
published IN MEMORY OF HER, Dublin, 2008
Copyright © Rosemarie Rowley | Year Posted 2014
Does it really matter who actually eventually wins
As we voters give our lives, do they give us their skins
Do they really care about who votes them into power
As we voters give our lives, in power, us, they devour
How many do remember, where they actually came from
And do they walk our walk, when voted in sing song
How can we trust their hand, their smile when they need us
And their continual door to us closed, all because we make a fuss
Our fuss we make is not born, it's created in our lives
How many of us remember, it's in their voted strive
When does our strive resist, to be taken as we exist
For many days to weeks, we're in continual wanting persist
Whether Democrat or Republican, when elected look into voters eyes
Or be forgotten from hence you came, and in us we'll soon despise
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2012
They set aside views sometimes avoiding conflict real.
Voicing their concerns to no-one that matters truly,
Ones that stir the pot, while time is what they steal,
These voices in shadows sustain all that’s unruly.
Riding the severity, ripping others minds cruelly.
They have no servitude, just societies recklessness.
Hidden behind the true wealth, fading unduly,
They do not fight for reality, existing in weakness.
Those who ultimately rise for all have great consciousness.
These are the thinkers, poets, philosopher’s existing free.
Each of these set aside and speaks driving from darkness.
Creativity from mind, allows them to speak, others to see.
Humankind has vast distinct differences, of what is freedom.
Unfortunately very few times, do rulers have true wisdom?
Sponsor Dr.Ram Mehta
Contest Name The Spenserian Sonnet
Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2011
My brother-in-law keeps egging me on
"Get active in political races
If you wait too long, your chance will be gone
Politicos hire familiar faces”
Tim always thinks he knows what’s best for me
And he just assumes I’ll take his advice
After all, he’s blessed with a PhD
Knows how to avoid paying market price
Though some pursue careers with great gusto
Following my heart is more important
Political favors I can forego
Pursue no payback; suffer no torment
If you become the devil’s advocate
You might lose self respect, lickety split
Dedicated to John Freeman in honor of his Sonnet Contest
Copyright © Diane Locksley | Year Posted 2010
Arise, you song birds sing in morning dew;
The flow’ry host to colour fields and furrows,
And sap of Spring runs gold in willows veins;
As tender leaves unfold to speak of birth,
Fresh mountain ranges iced give life anew—
While waters melt and stream through cricks and borrows
The gleams of light will melt the winter strains
Though spills of oil have quenched the songs of earth.
The corporate sting of greedful revenue,
Has bankrupt natural wonders—greedy farrows
The eagle has no pow’r to save her eggs,
Tall forests fall and crush the robin’s hue
When flow’ry petals change to black on yellow—
The spotted fawns arise with warbled legs
Copyright © J.R. Dawson | Year Posted 2013
-- James Ph. Kotsybar
The zombies are coming; no one knows why –
no time to ponder such things anyhow.
Apocalypse gives us no time to cry.
Survival is all we can think of now.
They hunt for us in slow, relentless mobs
and push past all our barricades by force.
We stifle our screams and swallow our sobs
to realize we are just their food source.
There may exist a ruling, safe elite –
the privileged who caused our current woes
and watch us as we’re torn apart like meat –
but likely they’re no better off. Who knows?
For us, they won’t sweep in to save the day.
To them, we never mattered anyway.
Copyright © James Ph. Kotsybar | Year Posted 2013
In cavalcades of bulletproof cocoons
all aspects of our lives they can control
they own all that you have except your soul
the sharply suited pipers call the tunes.
Exchanging every privilege and boon,
in freedom's name to dominate, their goal,
unleash fierce ordinance to take it's toll
fruits of their machinations now lie strewn.
Far off, survivors of their bombs and guns
crouch , huddled in a maze of shattered walls,
tarpaulin shades family from the sun,
parents can't quiet hungry baby's call.
A world away, when all is said and done
the price of one gold watch could feed them all.
27th October 2015
Basic Italian ( I think)-
octave, abba abba
Copyright © Viv Wigley | Year Posted 2015
Call no toad a man,call no man toad,
Till he begins to live without a code;
And calls no definite address abode,
As he shamelessly jumps from cold to cold.
Call no man a toad,call no toad man,
Super man makes home,but toad makes leaps;
The man-toad’s pledge dies so soon on his lips,
But real man lives for what he says he can.
Pain is his gain who boasts in total toad,
And says sure morrow my cargo shall come;
How blind is he not to see the real qualm
That gold in toad’s hold is but a lost load.
Leader today,decampee tomorrow,
Bad bane of my generation sorrow.
Date :5th Oct.,2014
Copyright © KAYOD5 Kayode | Year Posted 2014
Bharathidasan’s “Pulikku nay enta muulai” (To the Tiger, the Dog knows no safe dwelling!) translated by T. Wignesan
Bharathidasan (1891-1964) was a self-proclaimed disciple of the eminent Brahmin poet: Cuppiramania Bharathiyar (cf. two poems of his already posted). Born in Pondicherry – a French enclave in Tamil Nadu - he solded a lasting friendship with Bharathiyar during the 1910s when the latter sought refuge there from the British Adminstration as a political agitator. For more details, check my article at
For Tamils, Tamil is their mother-tongue, we said
For Tamils, Tamilakam is their motherland, we said
In Tamil Nadu what might the stranger yet seek to wreak?
From the pouncing tiger where might the dog refuge seek?
Drowsily withering subjection Tamils have known - enmity
Won’t it be reduced to nought the day they wake up?
The ill-intentions of those in the North, their bones
Might crushed be given the might of the Tamil people.
Let each in his own land freely make his home - let
The coveting of another’s land be crushed with force!
Let a carefree existence the whole world envelope!
Raised hands should good works accomplish before rest!
There was a time the world cowed to the Tamil people - then
Did the Tamils think of setting up their own colonial rule?
Arrogate the right to property over other peoples’s goods
Were there those amongst us who wrought thus back then
Pulikku nAy enta mUlai!
tamilarkkut tamilE tAymoli enrOm
tamilakam tamilarkkut tayakam enrOm
tamil nAttil ayalark kini enna vElai?
tAvum pulikkoru nAy enta mUlai?
tUnkiya tuntu tamilarkal munpu - pakai
tulakum anrO elunta pinpu?
tinku purikinra vatakkarin enpu
sitaintitac ceytitum tamilarin vanpu
avanavan nAttil avanavan vAlka - mar
rayal nAttaic curantutal atiyOtu vilka!
tuvalata vAlkkai ulakellam sulka!
tUkkiya kaikal aramnokkit tAlka!
tamilanuk kulakam nAtunkiyatuntu - ankut
tannatci niruvita enniyatunta?
tamatE enru pirar porul kontu
tamvala enniyOr enkular pantu!
Some reflections (abridged here) on the above poem with respect to the Tamil classical literary corpus:
Classical Tamil literature of the Cankam period, around the 2nd to the 5th century A.D., and the post-Cankam epic and religious compositions up to about the 10th century or so is handed down to us in strict prosodical structures and clothed in literary conventions whose canon was already laid down in the ancient treatise on linguistics, prosody, and poetics: Tolkappiyam, according to conservative estimations, as early as the 3rd century B.C. The reason for this is evident. Until the printing press was implanted at Tranquebar, a little to the south of Pondicherry, when Father Beschi, an Italian Catholic missionary who wrote and translated from the Tamil into Latin, in the early 17th century, all of Tamil literature was written down and preserved in perishable palm-leaf manuscripts whose longevity was limited to between two to three hundred years, depending on the quality of their conservation. As such, almost all of pre-nineteenth century Tamil writing was committed to memory, and learning by rote constituted the essential mental exercise for the very young in age.
The colonial European “enemy” of the past set aside, he then takes on, in the following quatrain, the indigenous northern Indian Aryan as the “enemy” who may be construed as forming part of the Brahmin minority - though infinitely powerful caste - in Tamil Nadu.
The final quatrain then holds up the Tamil glorious mediaeval past as an example of conquerors who were unwilling to play the colonial master. Paratitasan, of course, is here refering to the great Tamil Cola kings: Rajaraja I (985-v.1014) and his son, Rajendra I (1012 - 1044), and Rajendra Kulottunga Cola I (v.1070-1120), whose army and naval forces conquered Sri Lanka, Southeast Asia, and the lands leading up to the Ganges River at Benares from the Southern Peninsula and the Deccan, after having defeated the Calukyas of the northwestern Deccan with their army of nine-hundred thousand soldiers and followers.[Sastri:1984, 140- 341]
Let us next look at the prosodic organization of the poem. At first glance, the rhyme scheme: end-rhymes or iyaipu, is as follows: aa bb cddd efff ghii. If we put aside the taniccol or separate word common in Tamil prosody in c, e, and g, there is only h which detracts from the almost perfect scheme of rhymes. But then, in actual fact, barring the taniccol, all the end rhymes are perfect: aa bb cccc dddd eeee (cf. the transliteration). The only ending, in the fourteenth line, which appears to deviate from the norm is actually made up of tuntu and a, the latter being an interrogative particle. Further, excluding the first couplet which is a mere statement of fact preceding the body of the poem, somewhat like an epigrammatic quotation, the three quatrains with the second couplet placed at the end could make for a Shakespearean sonnet.
Tamil poetry still places much store by alliteration or monai, a poetical device which enjoyed much appreciation in all forms of mediaeval poetry. The first three words of the first two lines, the first two of the fifth, the first and third of the ninth - are all appropriate examples.
Another basic requirement of Tamil prosody is the initial rhyme or etukai which falls on the second syllable of the first word, repeated in successive words or lines. The first couplet is a perfect example of initial rhymes. Others may be found in the last two lines, and so forth.
The above excerpts are taken from a chapter in my book on Tamils and their literary achievements. T. Wignesan. Rama and Ravana at the Altar of Hanuman: on Tamils, Tamil Literature and Tamil Culture. Chennai: Institute of Asian Studies, 2006 & Allahabad: Cyberwit.net, 2008, 750p..
Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2015
O writer! Your quill quivers in its mark!
As a light shines in the gathering dark
While people struggle towards some vision
To attest them truths is your sole mission.
In prose and in poem may you reveal
Festering lies and felonious deals
Despite those who censor please persevere
Your ink is the ichor your foes fear!
Banishment is a writer's objective
By this we know our foes were attentive
By their displeasure our work is measured
And one day our toil is truly treasured.
Take up your quills and prepare to question
The quest for truth is a path to heaven.
Copyright © Michael Dom | Year Posted 2013
IT TAKES A VILLAGE IDIOT
The paper trail that led from there to here
could not be found although there was the mark
of fingerprints that would not disappear
in light of all we know, we're in the dark;
from Little Rock's whitewater world of fame
once cool and fresh and bottled for it's sell
the papers that were writ could clear their name,
but if they're real, not anyone can tell;
who knows what evil lurks in hearts of men
or in my ladies chambers, hid away
from prying eyes of prophets free of sin
and so they'll never see the light of day?
And still the truth's unknown, for who would care
lest muddy waters flood us everywhere?
©Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016
Raised among walls, of popularity from gone sages
This place, o’ gods of gods born of mothers of universe
Of human destiny, here infused for ages
Whence civilization soars, it rules even the age of my verse.
This place garnish o’ galaxy, like palace of hades
Of tiles in crystalline, in eye balls flow
Of alchemy, nations drink from its silver cup as their poverty fades
Creaking sounds of gold and wares, little little starry stars glow.
Olympus, siphoning lands, o’ air-raid subjection
Mutiny spell, sprays of orthodoxy rejection
O’ many men preach, of breach the current from here dazzle
Of many walls envisage victory, to razzle.
Oh! Olympus, never allow what I hold of you to flaw
For, nations make you victim of their law.
Uche Chidozie Okorie
Copyright © Chidozie Uche | Year Posted 2013
Plagued by agents of disinformation,
smearing objectivity with a spoof,
as if a lot of followers equals confirmation,
a lie told often enough becomes truth.
Rumours of the Swine and depopulation,
aliens, free energy and speculation,
aur silence and tolerance bring ramification,
we need to stop for a day of contemplation,
it does not take long to realise who control’s each and every nation.
Beneath the facade of illusion,
the puppet master reaps with his confusion.
WAKE UP...tick tick tick... ... ...
Copyright © Lance Lawlor | Year Posted 2009
She walks amid our dream of brick and stone
dreamt yesterday, then made for time to share,
the spirit of our past, she walks alone,
but she will touch your hand if you are there.
Past cobbler's dens, and Printers Alleyway,
down by The Tannery, the five and dime,
and bakers who arose before the day,
she's known them all, through pages of our time.
And she can sing you dreams from songs forgot;
they made our nation cling to unity;
in lessons sweet, in times where we had not
enough of blood who made our dream to be.
She walks, she is our dream of Liberty,
to welcome those who died to keep us free.
© Ron Wilson aka Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2014
Our ecosystem and wildlife can no longer be ignored
The devastation caused by the Gulf oil spill must vastly be restored
As anger and frustration surges across the Coast
The depletion of our environment, indeed we fear the most
Several past months, many lives have been erased
In the midst of these disasters, we can only look to faith
Now let us pay a visit to some underlying factors
Volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and other natural disasters
It was not in their intention for a high tech failed invention
Yell still they don't take into account the consequences of their actions
Efforts to contain this oil spill is more doltish than we have known
What more massive debacles can this single Earth condone?
Many local residents are now suffering from depressions
So think about what lies ahead, our future generations
Copyright © Rashana King | Year Posted 2010
ONLY THE STRONG WILL SURVIVE
God gives not peace, it's only dreamt by man,
in all the world ,brought from catastrophe,
all things are made, since time was first began
by things upheaved so new life comes to be.
The weak must fail, be eaten by the strong,
and losers die the death along the way,
so new life grows, even if it is wrong,
there is no time the poor will have to play.
The lion who will lay down with the lamb,
will have a feast before the day is done,
and all the world will never give a damn,
nor care about the giants and their fun.
The hunter takes his aim and fells the dove
the weak in life are only dreaming of.
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2011
The generous seas do roam vividly,
And sacred words spoken earnestly.
People suffer and people go to war,
I just hope these words will go afar.
Yesterday I published a FREE book,
Indeed a feat of altruism, no crook!
I suffer in silence in every moment.
I have no money to publish a stunt.
I was just hoping for word-of-mouth
And email propagation as loudmouth.
Book is at: http://bookbooster.com/newage.htm
I accept feedback just at: firstname.lastname@example.org
OFFICIALLY THE MOST ELOQUENT STORY TELLING POETRY BOOK EVER WRITTEN
-ALL NON FICTION- (This spiel typed in the spur of the moment - God Bless you)
Copyright © Lexmilian de Mello | Year Posted 2013
Again their nose beyond obvious doubt
reveals what's known, the hate is dark and deep
it calls to mind, what life was all about
when all are settled in for restless sleep.
Refreshed with rising sun, our pain goes on,
all wonder is where leaders lead us to,
but by the mid of day, all doubt is gone
and in a vote, our deep is what we do.
The unionized stay joined, throughout their quest,
But sleep is all we think about tonight
to dream of sharks who bite and do their best
to waken us from dark, and hide our light.
And screaming in our pain, we wonder why
All sleep is restless 'til the night we die.
© Vee Bdosa the doylestown poet
Copyright © Vee Bdosa | Year Posted 2016