Poem | |
I Love Horses: A--Z
A is for... Appaloosa. They have
blankets on their rumps.
B is for...Belgian. They work
hard and can pull up stumps.
C is for...Clydesdale. They're
BIG bays with white fluffy feet.
D is for...Dartmoore, a pony
from the moors--so sweet!
E is for...Egyptian, the finest
horse on desert sand.
F is for...Fresian: Big black War
Horse--a Knight's demand.
G is for...Gypsy Vanner, a rare
beauty like fairy tales.
H is for...Hanoverian. The best
all-round from England hails.
I is for...Irish Tinker. A loyal
horse that's black and white.
J is for...Java Pony. He's
Indonesia's working sprite.
K is for...Knapstrup. He's a
horse full of leopard spots!
L is for...Lipizzaner: Grey
leapers known in the Big Tops!
M is for...Mustang. Wild and
Free--roams America's West.
N is for...Nonius: Big-headed
black and drives the best.
O is for...Oldenburg. Dressage
ribbons just get bigger.
P is for...Palomino. Roy Rogers
named his, Trigger.
Q is for...Quarter Horse,
cowboy's fav'rite! Does
R is for...Racking Horse. His
ride's so smooth it will make
S is for...Spotted Saddle Horse,
Gaited beauty everyone loves.
T is for...Thoroughbred. Racing,
"The Sport of Kings", he does.
U is for...Ukrainian Riding
Horse: Beautiful born after
V is for...Vlaamperd: Flemish
black stallion and true friend.
W is for...White Horse(Albino).
The Lone Ranger's 'Silver'--of
X is for...Xilingol. He's
Mongolia's riding draft horse.
Y is for...Yonagui, a chestnut
pony from Japan.
Z is for...Zebra: African wild
but tamed by man.
A personal therapist long past
The love of a horse...is the
love... of a Friend.
For Cyndi's contest
More great poems below...
Poem | |
I roll the sacred egg on your head
and spirit of my ancestors
is awakening in my heart.
The crowds of ghosts
come before my eyes
and energy of healing
is in my words.
Ukrainian shamanic tradition
Poem | |
I am surrounded by death’s
its unrelenting determination.
I cling to the nothingness
feel the emptiness of
the gnawing bite of hunger
My children died first,
made too weak to linger -
in death’s grip -
held the lifeless bodies
and slowly followed.
Looking into her
hollow, empty eyes
I knew that death
long before her
to the hate.
to the hungry,
to the children.
to forgotten gods
for an end,
one more time,
see the gray haze
of one more day,
into blackened memories.
yet this war
I will rest now,
allow the darkness
what little is left
of my life,
of my family,
John G. Lawless
for the Genocide: Speak for the Lost contest
Holodomor, the Ukrainian genocide.
Poem | |
The augury of him in Crimea was so
That Ekaterina said she was tired of sandwiches
But I did have black tea, black Latvian bread with her black Ikra near Black Sea
Hundreds of kilometres from Kiev and from Moscow in Odessa where heresy breaches
I beated her wings in no confinement,in no vituperation
She flew flower to flower to no destination
She knew I was a drinking son of pride straightaway
And I apprised me that she was a drunk daughter of arrogance having me in sway
At night on table when Putin came with my rassolnik
And said that he had seen many earthquakes being not born a Japanese geek
I felt in my bedroom her shenanigan moves
A carefully preserved time capsule in grooves
Rubbers burnt got her season
and wheels vulcanized got his prison
Dudley Castle and Kremlin cannot be friends
With Timoshenkos pillaging appetites in trusses and bends
Keep your red gown for the right time Ekaterina
For I have eaten all meats-that of a pig, of a cow,horse and bear
And eschew my emotions like a ballerina
A square,a quadrilateral,a rhombus and a parallelogram are not the same when each buccaneer
Vladimirs have always condescended bloody Mirs of Dagestan
In the duel between Russian charlottes and Turkish harems
The fishing villages of acrimony and Satan
I will not count Ekaterina`s eggs for my child`s Ukrainian mother in tandems
Ikra-Russian caviar in poetry`s context its the black caviar or fish eggs.
Rassolnik- is a traditional Russian soup made from pickled cucumbers, pearl barley, and pork or beef kidneys. A vegetarian variant of rassolnik also exists. The dish is known to have existed as far back as the 15th century, when it was called kalya
Poem | |
Ancestors had fore-planned
My whole being in Spanish
Yet, my concerned parents wrote
My rhesus A-plus blood in Tagalog
I was born, they said
To enjoy my own life, not theirs
That I took slowly my first steps in Ilocano
Only to be held captive by a beast, a stranger
My Dad, lover of math, thought I got his brain
So, he slaved himself working…and sent
Me to a Catholic private school, but
I found myself reading in Russian
‘Cos I was granted summers bathe in Dnepro
Where I spied the future in a Ukrainian accent
Thou, alone for years, I managed to earn happiness
As I learned friendship and peace in Arabic
But, I was best-loved in Chechen
And I’ve lived my dalliance in French, my lovers
For me, my inspirations; they half-influenced
Me, to become words whisperer in English
Oh yes, life is strange
And full of twists, yet, I saw the sliver
Of hope in Modern Greek, when
I met my other half. She spoke about….
Xristos, in whom I now dwell
For his language of love I learn to speak
And I try to live it in perfection
Till I breathe my last
More great poems below...
Poem | |
You might think that I just have sweethearts
That come from the United States
But that is where you are wrong
Because I have an international sweetheart too in Lilia Podkopayeva!
She comes from the country of the Ukraine
And really bursted onto the scene at the 1996 Games
Where she won three medals: two gold and one silver
And today she's another special sweetheart of mine.
I know you're probably asking how she became a sweetheart of mine
Well I will tell you the story behind her
It was that I was watching the Rock 'n' Roll Gymnastics Challenge
Of course, she was there performing
And I began to think of how "cool" it would be
To have an international sweetheart too
So my heart opened up and let my fourth sweetheart come in!
She became the first woman gymnast
Since another Ukrainian did it in 1972 named Ludmilla Turischeva
To be both the reigning World and Olympic All-Around Champion.
At only seventeen years old this young lady
Is also known as the "Queen of Gymnastics"!
Poem | |
...Hoender - Afrikaans, Pulë - Albanian, ???? - Arabic, ?????? - Belarusian, ???? - Bulgarian,
Pollastre - Catalan, ? - Chinese (Simplified), ? - Chinese (Traditional), Piletina - Croatian,
Kurecí - Czech, Kylling - Danish, Kip - Dutch, Kanaliha - Estonian, Manok - Filipino,
Kana - Finnish, Galiña - Galician, ??t?p???? - Greek, ??? - Hebrew, ???? - Hindi, Csirke -
Hungarian, Kjúklingur - Icelandic, Ayam - Indonesian, Sicín - Irish, ?? - Japanese,
??? - Korean, Calis - Latvian, Vištiena - Lithuanian, ??????? - Macedonian,
Ayam - Malay, Kylling - Norwegian, ???? - Persian, Kurczak - Polish, Pui - Romanian,
?????? - Russian, ???????? - Serbian, Kuracie - Slovak, Kuku - Swahili, Kyckling - Swedish,
??? - Thai, Tavuk - Turkish, ????? - Ukrainian, Gà - Vietnamese, Cyw Iâr - Welsh,
????? - Yiddish, Huhn - German, Frango - Portuguese, Poulet - French, Pollo - Italian,
Pollo - Spanish, Chicken - Maltese, Chicken - Slovenian, Chicken - English.,...-=.....-=..-=..-
=......HA! HA! HA!...for old times sake...lol...Your Kidster, Your Majesty.
Poem | |
Never for preserved peach or tomato - only for cucumber:
Always steaming lots of big jars and sterilizing lids,
Ukrainian Inna lived for the pleasure of the shiny green rosids,
And dreamed of them whether awake or at slumber
There was no real cuc harvest, except in her mind, yes.
She lived in the big city like a single cucumber in a barn,
Needing something significant in her life: living should not be in vain.
She sensed when it was cuc harvest-time even in the city cuc-less.
From farming village, family tradition, for work she was a stickler,
But finished all jobs fast, allowed nothing to encumber
Her jarred supply of cucs, even in a winter devoid of ‘cumber.
Her mum and grandma had been devout picklers.
In her farmer’s mind an earthy animal instinct,
Like birds smelling the breeze from the south
And flocking, even in their cages. Or drooling at the mouth
Like doctored cats, howling in March for theoretical fulfillment.
See them, amass them, pickle them without number
Stick to something you’re used to: if you see it, pickle it.
Give to friends, neighbours, but no real demand for it: can’t quit.
Medical definition: Atavism, terminal, cucumber.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Charming true story about a young girl, Inna,who worked with my wife years ago. Inna's main pastime for relaxation in the huge city of St. Petersburg was pickling cucumbers, which brought back her happy family memories of the farm in Ukraine years before.
Poem | |
No Sleep Till Death
Some Russians are like insomnia. Always there and always evil. No let up on the pressure. A wave bursting out of your skull. A physical presence so real it becomes surreal. Invisible, not there, not existing.
But eight thousand nuclear warheads, massive human rights abuses, Crimean annexation, Ukrainian invasion and a delusionary paranoid dictator give pause for thought. Let us touch reality. When sleep does come, its broken.
You awake feeling bad, unrested, on edge, that something is up and bad things will happen. That's Russia peering over your shoulder. The bit of sleep you have is punctuated by dreams, bad ones. Nightmares of unseen imagery, enemies too evil for words.
For insomnia is Russia, Russia is insomnia. And when Russia blows, it'll affect every single one of us. We'll all be wide-awake then. Only sleeping as the final nuclear curtain falls.
Poem | |
It is gratis,
I can help mention not saying so,
But I say and I play now this important role!
Because in Ukrainian language it means: to play,
Children can gratis all day long - anyway!
That is the same: children can play all day long,
In the supermarket in Holland in 1993:
Gratis and my friend - with big smile
Like a child
Told me the story
Of charge in this new supermarket for him and his wife
It's not pity, it is Glory!
Not one bottle of wine
Especially for family life:
Second bottle was gratis
And they play this game when they see it again!
And win - Oleg and Olga from Ukiraine,
Grazio, thank You, my dear George Bush
For America, for your big and very pleasant smile,
Was also the teddy bear and free
For a child, that can't help mention saying
That it is good temper not only weather now, agree
That it is our sky is mirthful not only thoughts
About gratis Christmas gifts for all those - lots
Who are on Earth but children,
And without money,
And are not happy,
But can play with weapon
And play, and win, but die,
It is not good, it is bad
To have so big enemy as Iran,
But I ask you, please, be also glad
And careful with East,
Because it is not only the credit list,
But also gratis friend of American people!
Poem | |
My Sweet little pie,fresh on my plate,
The breeze took its smell,down those sleepy lanes.
Church bells rang, lilies bloomed,
Tale of my pie,made my town alive.
Then came a fatty Russian,who lives next door,
Broke in under darkness and took away my pie.
Dated : 19.03.2014
This is dedicated to all Ukrainian bro & sis who are under Russian invasion.
Poem | |
A man lies dying, a victim of a cause
his name not important, nor the time of his fall
Impaled in Romania, or crucified for the glory of Rome
cut are the sinews of conscience, dangling from a soulless abode
How many have bled, in reverence to a god or a nation
holy aren't thy waters, baptizing an armada of Spanish creation
For every 95 Thesis, must we have a 100 Year War
October bled Stalin's revolution, a red epitaph of Leningrad lore
Blame pernicious leaders, for cajoling fear and hate
yet whose firm handshake slits the throat, of civilized debate
A Ukrainian famine, a Jewish holocaust, a Japanese city eerily still
the killing fields are always fertile, beneath the city on a hill
Ignorance and greed, gorge a leviathan corpulent and crowned
cannibalism is its creed, its ruddy chains writhing unbound
How many voices were silenced, that sixth day of June
history too often forgets, to seal a tyrant's tomb
We are blessed with reason, the ability to discern
is life not a precious gift, impossible to return
Could you steal the last breath, from your child's loving kiss
would a god give you a righteous sword, to kill one of his
Poem | |
Ukrainian Human Demise
Infants should not have to die on airlines
Parents should not have to cry
Aeroflot should be stopped from landing in our country
For a start
It’s all about the money
Hurt the Putin’s and friends in their pockets
Leave us time to mourn for our lost ones
But forceful to stop this humanity decline
What are we as humans
If we don’t respond
All nations need to carve out a path to gather up our dead
All armies should respond
Bring back our 298 loved ones to bury them with respect and honor
If not…. What are we but complacent, complicit in this crime
7/22/14 Make Me Cry contest