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Best Armenian Poems

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Not Forgotten- Victims of the Armenian Genocide by Manassian, Eileen
My Mother's Eyes- Thoughts on the Armenian Genocide by Manassian, Eileen
The Armenian and The Liverpudlian by williams, colin mitchell
Armenian Genocide by Long, Daron
Armenian War Child by Long, Daron
Armenian Triumph by hickman, cecil

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The Best Armenian Poems

Details | Armenian Poem | |

A Genocide Story- My Mother's Eyes

They dragged my mother away
kicking and screaming
arms outstretched towards
my little sister
who lay dying on the ground
her lips parched
her eyes sunken
her wasted arms reaching out
“Myreik (Mother), don’t leave me!”
My father pulled my mother away 
the young soldier’s grasping hands
the one who had violated her
the one who now sneered
“Keep moving….she will be dead
Before nightfall.”
I hurried after them
stumbling through my tears
afraid of being left behind
I turned for one last look
There she lay…her eyes closing
left behind to join the
the dead along the path
my sister….
That night I didn’t hear her cry
or complain as the soldiers
dragged her away
she was beautiful
my mother
with eyes the color
of the sea
eyes that danced
and twinkled
like stars on a clear night
eyes that smiled
eyes that embraced
eyes that spoke
what words couldn’t say
I fell asleep to the sound of my father’s weeping
“Wake up,” I heard her say
as I fought to keep my dreams alive
my eyes fluttered open
I closed them to the hungry faces
I closed them to the filth on her dress
I searched her eyes
calm and glassy
they looked past me
not seeing

In them I read
no pain
no joy
no recognition

Tears sprang to my eyes
tears for the death of my sister’s body
tears for the death of my mother’s soul…
My mother’s eyes
my mother’s eyes...
They haunt me still. 

Eileen Manassian

Though this is a fictitious write, the events depicted did happen during the Armenian Genocide in 1915 by the Ottoman Turks. One million and a half Armenians were marched into the desert in what has come to be known as the Death March. My mother's family were fortunate. They were able to run away in time. They relocated to Lebanon. My mother was a refugee at 14 years of age. She and her two sisters suffered poverty and had to work hard to make a living for the family. Their fate could have been worse. April 24 marks 100 years since that event. Not all countries have recognized the genocide. Unfortunately, America is one of them. 

 If you want to read an account of those days, read The Sandcastle Girls. Read of how woman were tied to stakes as the soldiers rode past on their horses and decapitated them. Read of how the orphaned children were gathered at night and put in caves and burned alive. Read of how the woman marched naked...their wounds festering, their hair matted...almost inhuman. Read of how women committed suicide rather suffer rape while others disfigured themselves to go unnoticed. History cannot deny the genocide. If justice is not served will day. God told Cain..."the blood of your brother Abel is crying out to me." The blood of these martyrs cries out today for recognition. 

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

More great poems below...

Details | Armenian Poem | |

My Mother's Eyes- Thoughts on the Armenian Genocide

They dragged her away
Kicking and screaming
Arms outstretched towards
My little sister
Who lay dying on the ground
Her lips parched
Her eyes sunken
Her wasted arms reaching out
“Myreik, don’t leave me!”
My father pulled her away from 
The young soldier’s hands
The one who had violated her
The one who now sneered
“Keep moving….she will be dead
Before nightfall.”
I hurried after them
Stumbling through my tears
Afraid of being left behind
I turned for one last look
There she lay…her eyes closing
Left behind to join the
The dead along the path
My sister….
That night I didn’t hear her cry
Or complain as the soldiers
Dragged her away
She was beautiful
My mother
With eyes the color
Of the sea
Eyes that danced
And twinkled
Like stars on a clear night
Eyes that smiled
Eyes that embraced
Eyes that spoke
What words couldn’t say
I fell asleep to the sound of my father’s weeping
“Wake up,” I heard her say
As I fought to keep my dreams alive
My eyes fluttered open
I closed them to the hungry faces
I closed them to the filth on her dress
I searched her eyes
Calm and glassy
They looked past me
Not seeing
In them I read
No pain
No joy
No recognition
Tears sprang to my eyes
Tears for the death of my sister’s body
Tears for the death of my mother’s soul…
My mother’s eyes
My mother’s eyes...
They haunt me still.

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2012

Details | Armenian Poem | |

A Taste of my Varied Genres

A Sample of some of the genres I write it...Nature, family, depression...just a taste...just a taste. These are all reposts and can be found along with these titles:

The Sound of His Breathing (Written about my husband. It won in a competition)

Sorting through the worries in my head
Furious with the creaking of the bed
I toss and I turn
And I yearn and yearn
For answers to the questions of life
Wondering why I can’t be a good wife
And I hear his heavy breathing…
Rhythmic and slow
And I know
I know…
He is deep in his sleep
And I just want to weep
I close my eyes tight
Hoping all will be right
My heart whispers a prayer
To God who’s always there
“God…life is a mystery
Sometimes it’s beyond me
Where will it end?
What’s behind the bend?
Please grant this one plea
Please….listen to me…
When my heart’s filled with dread
As I lie on my bed
Lord, make my world right
Forever and always….
Let me hear the sound of his
Breathing at night!"

(The Last Poem I wrote about interrupting my husband's morning coffee time to give him some pleasure was considered too....passionate. I've deleted it, but perhaps I have to repost it. He Comes Looking for Me is another one about him. Since You've been Gone.

And Nature Spoke to Me

And Nature Spoke to Me
I pulled my aching body
Outside to get Vitamin D
The beauty of my back yard
Filled me with jubilee

And as I turned up my face
To soak up each golden ray
I heard strange sweet voices
That added joy to my day

And the sun spoke to me
As he blazed down from the sky…
“Like me you must be strong
And warm those who pass by”

And the wind spoke to me
As it played with my hair…
“Like the Holy Spirit of God
I’m here and everywhere.”

And the birds spoke to me
With their blissful little tweets…
“Open your heart to friends
They will give you many treats”

And the blossoms spoke to me
In fuchsia garments of spring…
“See the thorns by our sides?
Be prepared for all life brings.”

And the grass spoke to me
As it lay yellow on the ground
“Let love water your soul
So new life in you may be found.”

And the sky spoke to me
In azure tones of love…
“I’m endless as you can see
Free to fly is the peace dove.”

And the clouds spoke to me
As they sailed up in the sky…
“Let the worries that you have
Like us just drift on by”

And the pine trees spoke to me
As their scent filled the air…
“Stand tall like us and know
Gods help is always there.”

Today, all nature spoke to me
In a mother’s tone so kind
My heart heard every word
And I found my peace of mind.

Yes, I can write about nature....Over a thousand views on that one

An Old Lullaby

I watched her sleep
As I played with a curl
Pulled her closer to me
My sixteen year old girl...
I sang her an old lullaby
As my heart wondered why
The tables have turned
Now she’s the one
She’s the one
Who soothes me when I cry....
She pulled a cute face
And I couldn’t even trace...
Who she was dreaming about
Who made her heart shout?
Then struggling awake...
She said with a shake...
“Why is it that your mother’s voice
 Makes you want to sleep?”
I smiled....a song in my heart
The tears threatened to start
I couldn’t speak
I could hardly think
So I whispered a prayer
As I smoothed back her hair
And thanked God for old lullabies!

(My daughter is the light of my life. She's got great writing talent. Read her May 18 dedication to my for my birthday. "The Month of May- My Daughter's Tribute"

Happy Pill Plea

I reach out for my happy pill
To make the raging pain be still
My day with pseudo cheer to fill
To live, I need to find the will

And so I gulp a higher dose
To try to get out of “morose”
To say goodbye to my remorse
This way myself I diagnose

When day is done, I go to bed
My little heart so full of dread
That something’s wrong inside my head
Perhaps it’s best if I were dead

When morning comes, feet hit the floor
And then I think, “Must I face more?”
I’ll stay behind my bedroom door
To live this life is just a chore

A happy pill is not for you
But still at times I wish you knew
The need for meds for me is true
So here is what you have to do

Compassion is my deepest need
It helps from sadness to be freed
It is the bandage when I bleed
So make kindness your daily creed

(I have several poems about depression and ...suicide.

He’s the One who longs for me
The only one who can set me free
My forgotten lover….

He’s the one and only Light
The only ONE who can banish the night
My forgotten lover

He’s the one who sees my tears
The only One who can quiet my fears
My forgotten lover

He’s the one whose love’s divine
The only One whose heart is mine
My forgotten lover

He’s the one who gave his life
The only One who can calm the strife
My forgotten lover

He’s the one whose blood was spilt
The only One who can take my guilt
My forgotten lover

He’s the one whose voice I hear
“My love, remember I am near
I’m your forgotten lover 

“Remember how I love you so
I gave my all for you to know
I’m your ever faithful lover”

“I am my lover’s and He is mine
Jesus, your love is sublime
Be my cherished lover!” (Spiritual write. Many of those. Try He Touched me. Very popular)

Message to the Shooter

Life had done you wrong
Had taken away your song
You felt you didn’t belong
But why couldn’t you be strong?

You went on a shooting craze
Left behind a bloody maze
And little children in a daze
Did you think you’d get praise?

You had demons in your mind
So an outlet you had to find
Vented on children who are kind
Did self-loathing make you blind?

In the end you took your life
Left parents with nightmares rife
And pain twisting like a knife
Will there be no end to this strife?

Little children are now dead
Who will never be tucked in bed
Little classmates filled with dread
Couldn’t you kill your demon instead?

Your pain wouldn’t go away
So you made the innocent pay
Now the horror is here to stay
When you meet God, what will you say?

(social issues like Female Genital Mutilation, the Armenian genocide, the caste system)

What inspires me ? A great many things

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Harvest Thanksgiving

I do so love harvest thanksgiving, 
That time of year which celebrates agriculture, 
When church flips from being god-centred, 
To remembering farmers and good food manufacture.  

It’s not an Armenian or Amish allusion, 
‘Cos tins are given no problem; 
Natural remedies aren’t primed as better, 
Than medicines, to the mind and body superior. 

As a child who regretfully attended church, 
I thought on that day of poverty and Christian giving:
That their offer was kind of a respectable food bank, 
A silent redistribution of wealth, income and living. 

No food bank is respectable, of course, 
But they can channel wealth efficiently and appropriately;
And that the Church offers such for just one day, 
Should be celebrated as a positive sign most definitely. 

God is sometimes just such an abstraction, 
Academically, he’s for the objective mind; 
He’s not comforting when your needs are just so real:
Physical, emotional, psychological: he can be so unkind. 

When you just need a meal on the table, 
And need it supplied by someone else, 
Whether by government, food bank or church, 
It’s a person that's there, not divine impulse. 

I thought it was moral to impose that on believers, 
As a kid who just so wanted to talk and shoot, 
About real mechanisms, real structures and methods, 
Which made life’s systems, dynamics, art and roots.  

Being grateful for food, diet and health, 
Eclipses salvation humility and responce;
Eternal purpose lays as distant and non-tangible, 
To people and belongings which have an unimpeachable force. 

Farmers need to be remembered, given relevance, 
For their labour, dedication and sheer love of the job; 
It’s that occupation and training which ensures, 
Our basic daily needs are met not just with contours.

The harvest basket every year means to me hope, 
Nourishment for those who starve and scrape;
Church wealth rides so high and mighty on average, 
That this real examination is something to advocate. 

Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015

Details | Armenian Poem | |

My Name is Lelawala-w

Where sunless river weeps and waves into the deep
 Please awake me not as I sleep very charmed sleep.
 Have many a names in different cultures world over
 Boann, Anqet, Mujaji, talaya, Lelawala, & Tsoninar

 Native American know me as Lelawala goddess of rain
 My father married me off to a king as I was fair maiden
 But my true love was He-No, the god of great thunder
 Lurking in cave under *Horseshoe Falls of Niagara water.

Paddling a canoe on the Falls, was swept off the Falls
Luckily He-No caught me while falling down the Falls.
Here happily I and He-No live in the caves of Niagara
That’s my story and now is time for me to get to action.

Watch me on my favorite horse Backahasten or Ashrays
Falling from the great heights clinging to dewy softness
Lo! My grasp gives way and feel free to fall through air
My brothers and He-No with me I no longer have fear.

The sun peeks out above, the rays pierce from top to toe
Amazed to see an array of colors forming the rainbow
My flight continues on, the wind moves me side by side
Wait no more to find what lies as I complete this ride.

The earth is near and the air feels warmer all around
I dance from leaf to leaf and fall softly to the ground
Hand in hand with buddy drops glide the wet terrain
A mighty stream I am now and no more a drop of rain.

* I have placed a picture of the Horseshoe Falls, The American side of Niagara
 on my blog photos. You can also see Picture poem on this link:
I visited the Falls in June, 2000
Dr. Ram Mehta
Sixth place win in:
Contest: Rain, the story sponsored by Constance La France
*Lelawala, rain goddess in Native American legend, 
Boann – goddess of the River Boyne in Irish mythology
Anqet-  was originally a water goddess from Sudan
Mujaji - South African rain goddess 
Talaya- is a Canaanite Rain-Goddess, the dew or rain personified
Tsovinar - the Armenian goddess of sea and rain
Bäckahästen - means brook horse; this was the name of a mythological 
horse in Scandinavian folklore
Ashrays – Scottish mythology - Horse

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2010

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Their Blood is Crying Out- The April 24 Reminder

Almost a century ago
Innocent blood was spilt
Almost a century ago
But there remains the guilt

The world must acknowledge
The Armenian genocide
The blood won’t wash away
There is no place to hide

One million and a half
Of Armenians met death
Their hopes and dreams extinguished
Gone out with their last breath

The women brutally raped
And their husbands shot or hung
How many of their songs
To this day remain unsung

The children weak and fragile
Dying for want of some bread
Left in the desert to die
Buzzards flying overhead

The sick and the elderly
Were discarded on the way
No one to weep and mourn
When their bodies saw light of day

The mothers dying slow deaths
Seeing children turn to bone
Wanting to feed them their flesh
Knowing they’ll not see them grown

The young girls flying off cliffs
Rather than suffer disgrace
Others hiding their beauty
By disfiguring their face

The soldiers with stone hearts
Deaf to the moaning sounds
Of the dead and the dying
Strewn on the desert ground

Faceless nameless people
Identity stripped away
Not honored with a number
In this gruesome tragic play

Their blood is crying out
Like faithful  Abel of old
Still demanding justice
Their story must be told

The genocide of my people
Was not hidden from God’s eyes
The world may now deny it
May feed naive people lies

But every single blood drop
Will be accounted for one day
The murderers will face judgment
To escape- there’ll be no way

The Judgment day is coming
My people will see the light
They will be vindicated
They will march out of death’s night.

They will be reunited
With loved ones that they have lost
For their souls we now seek justice
We will achieve it at all cost.

Eileen Manassian Ghali

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Dog Gone Languages

Dog Gone Languages

All dogs bark except the Dingo
Humans think they know the lingo
But truth be told – reality
It’s a different sound in each country
In Arabic – hau-hau, how-how
Armenian – haf-haf
In Cantonese – wow-wow, wong-wong
Bulgarian – jaff-jaff
In English it’s arf-arf, bow-wow
In Malay it’s gong-gong
The Germans hear wuff-wuff, vow-vow
The Thais just hear hong-hong
I’d give you more but that’s enough
You need to know this other stuff
Dog barking has one common vice
A dog will always speak it twice
No matter how we hear the bark
Between two dogs it hits the mark
They seem to understand all others
Better than we do our brothers

Mdailey	11/28/12

Copyright © mike dailey | Year Posted 2012

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Living in the Middle East

You put him in a cage
That pilot you shot down
Pour gasoline on him
And set him ablaze

And the world is silent...

That seventeen year old girl
Writhes on that soiled bed
As you let all those other men
Rape her after you're done
She dies from the bleeding

And the world is silent....

You hold a sword to their throats
Ask them if they will recant
Siblings, they hold on to each other
Young children of a faith not your own
They stand firm
They won't recant
And so you slit their throats like sheep
Who is there to weep?

And the world is silent

You hold up decapitated heads
then hand them to your children to hold
Bloodied hair clutched in tiny hands
Then you drop the heads to the ground
And play football with them

And the world is silent....

I will not be silent
Here I stand
The atrocities demand
A willing hand
To write
A willing voice
To speak
To seek
A better way...
A better life....

Here I stand
Here I speak
Here I write

Here I WRITE....

The world can no longer remain SILENT!

Eileen Manassian

It's so sad. People have such high ideals. People speak of democracy. People disparage dictatorships, but set up and fund and provide weapons for the very people who carry out these atrocities. Look at the mess in Syria. Lebanon went through war after war....I lived in bomb shelters. During the civil war bombs landed on our campus and my brothers and father had to go out during the shelling to try to put out the fires. My friend's father was killed by brother and sister-in-law were wounded in the bomb blast that killed the prime minister of Lebanon. Who cares about Lebanon? THE WORLD? What does Lebanon have that is of interest...only citrus fruits and olives? Certainly not oil..... And that in itself explains so much. Look at Nicosia, Cyprus....the last divided capital in the world. Who cares? Who speaks out about occupation? Countries defend their allies....regardless of "right and wrong" The Armenian genocide has yet to be recognized by America..... These things may be far removed from many of you, but it is part and parcel of being in this part of the world. Nothing is certain...Unrest is present. Death is lurking.  Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? 

August 10, 2015 *****IMPORTANT ADDITION

Since having written this poem I have found out that the son of a friend of mine was kidnapped and held for ransom. Currently, Lebanon does not have a government and so people in the different political parties rule their "kingdoms" as they want. It is thought that these different factions have now turned to kidnapping of the rich to raise funds. Fortunately, my friend is rich and was able to secure her son's freedom. This is the reality of lie here....

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015

Details | Armenian Poem | |

ottaman strikes

sway armenian horde
your master,the ottaman
passes through your door

i wrote this to mark the anniversay of the ottaman/armenian war of 1915,today is the 
marked anniversary.i believe this would be the view of maybe a young,swaggering ottaman 

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Love Knows not Age

My dad fell head over heels in love with my mom during their college years. Mom was a petite, a dark haired, dark skinned little angel would could warble a song like none other, with a smile that earned her the name, Sunshine! Her real name? Angel! He was a tall, handsome, fair-skinned, bearded man from a far off land named Persia. He spoke no Arabic. She spoke no Farsi or Armenian, though her father was Armenian. The very first words she ever said to him were, “Are you alright?” when he was thrown off the maintenance truck, probably because he was staring at her and not holding on. They fell madly in love…..Only later….later did they discover that she was 10 years his senior. She looked much younger. He looked much older, and this was the Middle East where age MATTERS. 

A strange twist of fate
My love not defined by years
Why should it matter?

She broke up with him and she broke her own heart in so doing. He tried to stay away. Not only was she older, she was part Arab, and his mother would NEVER approve. Armenians married Armenians. If they did not do so, the race would die out. She threatened him in a letter. “If you marry that Arab, you are no longer my son!” 

Forbidden…your love
My heart in state of turmoil
Family demands

The age difference was a chasm that was impossible to cross….but he loved her. He adored her…her smile…her tender heart...her beautiful voice. He begged her to come back to him. “I cannot live without you.” She had been longing to hear those words. They married, and everyone named them….the love birds. When Mom got sick with MS, it was Dad who cared for her, who wouldn't put her in a home, who shed tears for the woman who had borne him three children and had been a support to him during his years of administrative and pastoral work in Iran. He bathed her, brushed her teeth, combed her hair, changed her soiled clothes, took her for rides…the only time she felt free! He carried her down three flights of stars on his back when he had to rush to the bomb shelter….Don’t tell me love is bound to age! NONSENSE! I've seen with my own eyes…a love that defies all odds…and remains strong…to the gates of death.

My Angel is gone
The sweetest joy of my life
When you were my wife

Eileen  Manassian Ghali

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013

Details | Armenian Poem | |

My Identity

You Armenians who question my identity...
Who whisper behind my back and smirk
Considering me a half breed
Not pure
The child of a mixed marriage
You who refuse to speak to me
In your mother tongue
Because my words falter
And my accent is disgraceful
You who turn your back on me
Unwilling to ratify
My identity
Unable to include me
In your inner circle
Of the chosen purebreds
Be ashamed!!!
Yes, be ashamed and hang your heads
My identity is not based
On the language I speak
Nor the knowledge I know
Nor my appearance
Or customs I follow

Slash my wrists
Slash them both and see…
Let the blood flow
And mingle with the red 
Of the blood of the martyrs
Splashed on the Armenian flag
See also the orange in my blood
Reflecting the color of the fertile land
That brings forth the nourishing wheat
See also the magnificent blue of my veins
Matching the blue of the flag
The color of the pure sky
That looks down and smiles
And blesses my beloved country
My motherland……

For Nathan A's Contest

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2013

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Love Is a Shrine

She has such beautiful eyes,
That proclaimed romance
This stance 
Is not enough to praise
Her profound beauty.
Bleeding from the open door,
Her tears are swiftly serenading 
the rhythm of life.
With a gentle apparel,
And beauty so fine,
With age became sweeter
With time it blossomed ripe.
She has such beautiful eyes
That I can built a shrine
Of love to glorify her..

Written by an Armenian Poet
Translated by Ernest Badounts

Copyright © Ernest Badounts | Year Posted 2013

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Not Forgotten- Victims of the Armenian Genocide

They fell by the way...
The old
The sick
The famished
Discarded heaps of humanity.
They jumped to their deaths...
The beautiful
The young
The desirable
Preferring to die than be ravaged.
They marched on....
During the day
During the night
With no destiny in sight
Endlessly enduring...
The insults
The beatings
The rapes
The stench of death.
They bowed their heads...
Their blood soaked the ground
Their screams muffled
Their anguish stifled
Their hearts torn
Their hopes murdered.
They still march on...
Through the wilderness
Of our seared consciences
Ever searching
for a final resting place.
Their blood stll cries out...
For justice
For acknowledgement
For restoration
For healing.
The Armenian Genocide
Will NOT be forgotten...
By all Armenians
By me
By God!

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2012

Details | Armenian Poem | |

folding forts

ottaman empire
armenian genocide
with pride,tradition

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Armenian Poem | |


While he was puffing in *"Duduk" 
Death plunges, fainted alone 
In desolated deserts. 

No lulling wind, 
No amusing lightning, 
Nor shading house, 
Not even the ‘black weeping clouds'
Yearning, to his companionship 
While he was puffing in *"Duduk" 
Heart plunges and fainted, 
Till the scent' melodies 
Flowing into pale dry grass 

*Armenian musical instrument is one of the oldest double reed instruments in the world.

Written by © Fatima Nusairat

Copyright © Fatima Nusairat | Year Posted 2014

Details | Armenian Poem | |


      Armenian Genocide
To The Memory of Those That 
   In 1915 Genocide committed 
By Turkey

They killed the helpless 
Those pigs ,that ruled the world
with no compassion.
They murdered women and 
innocent children,
The vultures of the world,
To kill the voice of hope
Injustice, Blood, Hate was their 
Dark wolves hungry for blood.
Atrocious beasts that glanced 
like shadows 
They killed our bodies,
But they can never kill our 
Now Watch!  We are united 
with our undying spirit;
Who can destroy us?
Who can defy?
The righteous blood was spilled 
upon the Mother Earth,
Earth screamed with birth of 
Now you! Yes you!
I am here to remind you
That we still stand strong,
Unshakable in mighty God,
We laugh at you,
Mock you ;
You sons of destruction.

The Truth Must Be Told
The Truth that is Forgotten

Copyright © Ernest Badounts | Year Posted 2013

Details | Armenian Poem | |

The Armenian and The Liverpudlian

The Armenian and The Liverpudlian 

It’s hard to see sometimes
How chalk and cheese can mix so perfectly
Makes you wonder how the differences of character
Can work together

He, all forthright respect and daily clarity
She, all winsome wishes and artistic poetry

And yet somehow they relate to each other
By default
They weave and intricate pattern  
Of threads in reality
And threads in dreams

Football, Liverpool FC runs in his veins
A passion and obsession 
His pride and his downfall if they win or lose
Staunch supporter he remains
Though quieter now than times gone past

Art and music, a dancer, she, of ballet precision
A passion and obsession
With such flare and grace and delicate turns of love
For the folklore rhythms of ancient songs
A picture of music’s expression in her form

Eight languages she speaks, Eight !
While he falters on Liverpool accent
But captures the essence of a foreign tongue
Chef he is of delicate cuisine
And she of wine’s pallet appreciates

Never have I know two such complex differential lovers
That intertwine and mingle so well
Or seen such ready acceptance of each other
In people prepared to accept any stranger
For who they are

How far apart did their lives begin
Liverpool England
Yerevan capital city of Armenia 
What wild horses drew them together
What turns of fate
Could bring this poetess
And this football obsessed
Man and woman
You have to ask

But through all their trials
They remain together
And in a few months they will be married
Do you know when you know
That something will last forever
They will I am sure

It’s a strange but cheese and chalk thing
That mixes together so fluidly
But of all the things that brought them
Together so perfectly
It is Love, respect and Honesty
Both of them
Have these admirable Qualities

To your future my friends
May you live in blending love

Copyright © colin mitchell williams | Year Posted 2009

Details | Armenian Poem | |



You have the biggies like Chinese-Americans
And Latino-Americans and German-Americans;
And miniscule groups like Armenian-Americans
Or   Bosnia-and-Herzegovinan-Americans;
But why do we never hear of  English-Americans,
Scottish-Americans or Welsh-Americans?
Sound weird  don’t they?  Kinda unnecessary.
Anyone ever heard of Canadian-Americans?
Or Australian-  or New Zealand-  oh  why?
And hey,  what about French-Americans?

These are not hyphenated Americans
They are eliminated Americans, 
And other groups include
Old people, who  are Antiquated-Americans
Mothers  -  Unappreciated-Americans
Pre-1492  Yanks are  Antedated-Americans
AFL-CIO  are  Aggregated-Americans
Dwarfs are Truncated-Americans
Smog-breathing residents of LA  are 
Asphyxiated-   or Hyperventilated-Americans.
Thank God I’m normal, I’m just American.

Copyright © Sidney Beck | Year Posted 2010

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Because She Missed Christmas

Out of the freezer
I bring the Christmas cookies
as my heart fills up with cheer~~~
The tree lights twinkle
Festivities are prolonged
My baby comes home tonight!

Eileen Manassian

In the early morning hours, I'm going to the airport to pick my daughter, Shereen Natalie Ghali. Due to her studies, she missed all 3 Christmases. Three? Yes..three. We celebrate the 25th, but the 6th of January (Armenian Christmas) and the 7th of January (Egyptian Christmas) are also important dates for our family. Still...Christmas wasn't quiet the same without my baby with me. We will have Christmas...all over again. :) 

Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Armenian Genocide

Maybe the suffering will end soon

Hope's only a death away

If we're lucky we'll all be dead tomorrow

If we're lucky we'll all die and leave behind this sorrow

Tired of seeing our people weep

Their deceased bodies in the streets

Starvation is life, malnutrition's set in

Our homes have been taken along with all our men

If we're lucky we'll all be dead tomorrow

If we're lucky we'll all die and leave behind this sorrow

The children are crying

We're all slowly dying

The end for our people is near

If we're lucky we'll all be dead tomorrow

If we're lucky we'll all die and leave behind this sorrow

Copyright © Daron Long | Year Posted 2006

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Armenian Triumph

Ages have past, but the past never forgotten ever.
Remembering the pain and agony will remain forever.
Men, women, and children destroyed for no cause.
Energy from their souls lives on without pause.
Never forgetting, possibly forgiving in a future time.
Individuals once but now belonging to a horrid crime,
Angels now caress their souls and sing their praise.
Now we must in our hearts a monument raise.

Tears of woe will pass growing triumph from now on.
Realistic dreams of a future without pain will come upon.
Individuals, couples, and all that suffered in the past.
Unanimously we pray that our future will truly cast.
Many everlasting triumphs of love and peace in our land,
Preparing every soul for the glory upon us will stand.
Here and forever with faith and love our souls ever so grand.

Copyright © cecil hickman | Year Posted 2005

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Where I'm From

I am from the hot air of Georgia
Sandy Springs, the beginning
Life’s new breath
I am from the loving family
Recording every second of early life
With smiles on their faces.
I am from the horror of not understanding
What everyone else said
Only 3 words did I know of English
I am from the smiles and music
Of preschool, vibrant colors
And sounds dancing all around me
I am from the hurt of not being included
Physical and emotional
Unbearable for a young child
I am from first friendships
First bonds, new happiness
Discovering what hasn’t been discovered
I am from the cool air of Connecticut
From sandboxes and LEGO bricks
More and more friendships
I am from the large moss stones
Bushes and wasps
Flying around in the clouds
I am from Truman and Silvermine
From unlikely friendships
And sad goodbyes and farewells
I am from Center Avenue
From Blue Ridge Mountains
From coziness and farms
Armenian Church, 
A growing family of friends,
Love and friendships anew
Broken promises.
I am from Turnberry Circle
A new beginning, a fresh start
A chance to start everything anew
A ukelele softly strums
In the dimly lit room,
Love and emotions pouring.
I am from jackets and bracelets
Computer mice and wires
Fandom after fandom
Aperture Science -- 
But most important of them all
I am from love
From family,


Copyright © Eden Waterbird | Year Posted 2015

Details | Armenian Poem | |

Armenian War Child

This child of war,

feel as her blood runs cold.

Observe the festered wounds upon her feet,

the bullet hole in her head.

Why would someone wish such innocence dead?

Her mother slain by her side.

Her brothers and sisters, all have died.

Her father cradles the lifeless body in his grasp.

Weeping frantically, with hatred in his soul.

The demons came and murdered,

left all for dead.

The world’s turned a blind eye to their plight.

The brave few that do remain,

fight to end their children’s suffering and pain.

Tired of watching their sons beheaded,

their daughters molested,

their wives and mothers burnt alive.

The burning of their towns and homes darkens the skies.

Their religion mocked, their priests disemboweled,

left hanging in the center of town.

They fight to preserve their way of life,

but the world’s turned a blind eye to their strife.

Copyright © Daron Long | Year Posted 2006