Poem | |
I heard it said once
That attractive to an artist
Does not mean "pretty"
In the average sense
But more something that
Is interesting to look at
And makes you want to
To him, I can look for hours
And want to keep looking
He is the color burnt umber
Like coffee and cream
And purest black ink
Not blue-black, or brown,
But the undiluted purity
Of a spilled ink-pot
Shaped by the delicate curve
Of a calligraphy brush
Into perfectly, haphazardly
Beautiful curls, erratic and
And his eyes
Like coffee, taken
Without cream or sugar
But turned amber by sunlight
And sweetened by laughter
Making what might have been
Intimidating, with their darkly
Charcoaled outline that
Marks them as Arab
Instead as sweetly inviting
As the warm half-light of dusk
And so addictive
I've been looking for hours
And I want to keep looking
Poem | |
If languages were instruments,
English, the language of my own America,
Would be something like a piano.
Each word is clear and sharp-
When we sing, the note does not waver.
But I suppose it's more fair to say that
English is something like an electronic keyboard
With two hundred different modes because English
Has so many different versions,
Adaptations of other instruments,
Emulations, or imitations, however you want
To think of it; there is no accent that cannot
Be reconfigured to be
Played on keys in distinct shades
Of black or white.
Arabic is more like a violin.
The sound of Arabic
Flies up and down the scale
In deliciously smooth legato,
Stopping to linger on vibrato;
Poem | |
I climbed to the top of the mountain
Overlooking majestic snowy peaks
How refreshing to see the clouds below
I am on the door step to the heavens
Or so it seems
All for saying kind words
Its so easy it feels like a magical dream
That a smile and a kind word
Is returned one thousand fold
I say to fanatics and those so sure
Of what is right and good. or evil and wrong
Climb with me to the mountaintop
Breathe in the joy of being King for a day.
You may conquer them with your armies or terror, this is true
However, from way up high, as you gaze both below and up to the heavens
Would you not rather conquer their hearts?
Poem | |
Arabic Poem by: Riyadh Al-Ghareeb*
Translated into English by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_N_Silk)
It was not his idea
He did not wave to the sundown of his life
Quite simply, he let life go by
He was the only one who did not care about the war
Rather, he listened to music
And wrote poems
Shells were falling all around him..
Not once, he thought about death
Nor he paid attention to getting old in the mirror
All that he cared about
Was a woman he imagined loving him
And waiting for someone who may come back
Carrying a small snippet
Emblazoned with the script
From extreme madness “
He lived in his illusion
Even as he became a poet.
When his life was clotting
And nightfall of life was waving to him
All that was going on around him
Was not his choice
And the life he encountered
Was not his life..
He tried to get rid of his blue beard
And bitter tears
Near the nearest war
of his country’s
A country that has become
Addicted to wars.
He let his hair grow long
His dark skinned face
Was on the verge of revealing nightly starvation
At noontime, his children were panting
After a lifeless Dinar..
His final poem
Was laden with the grief of the world
But that world did not care about what was going on..
In his only room
The smell of onions mixed
With the smell of the empty pots;
Was the most beautiful memory in a country
It's his life
That he wanted to be
A part of his ration card,
His birth record
And the rest of his poems.
“Woe to the ruin!”
Removing the dust from a painting of him
Made, in a stolen moment,
By a painter who died two wars ago.
He was laughing
And holding a drink with an innocent cheer
As, above his head, birds in the somber colors of the sky were flying
Suggesting the he was important
And his life was of interest to others.
He flicked his tears
And on the tile of his room floor
He saw wars reproduce,
He saw his children go to a new war
He saw his wife coughing her years
And said to himself
Was not my idea
It is a naive game.
Let me keep on this road
At the end, I may find paper
For my friends to wrap me with
Like the oldest statue
Standing on the way of passers-by
And the country!!!!!!
Translated by: Em. Prof. Inaam Al-Hashimi
* Riadh Al-Ghareeb is a poet from Iraq
Poem | |
Sometimes I think that it has been so long since your departure
I actually lived more years without you than with you
Even though I had to accept the unspeakable pain I went through
I ventured into stages of life and had since mature.
Ummi words will not be enough to tell you how much I miss you
I remember your sweet smell forever in me imprinted
The cuddles of your arms where I felt protected
Your beautiful smile brightening my horizon renews.
I was not finish loving you ummi!
As I grew up more and more, learning to know you
I felt getting closer and closer … step by step … I had walked a few
I wanted to become your closest ally so you could rely on me.
I wanted to protect, help and take care of you one day
As you had spent so much of your time caring for me and my siblings
Your only girl I was and connected to you even in my dreams
I was going to be there for you… undertaking your relay.
My tears are still flowing for you from my broken heart ummi
As you left suddenly, a tear ingrained in my soul
I cannot resolve the unfinished puzzle
As if that fateful day, you had left with a piece of me.
I will forever love you …you’re the sweetest ummi
Poem | |
I sauntered out of an Irish Pub
Basted in booze and Irish smooze
The whiskeys sure didn’t cover the blues
Me, I knew this wasn’t good news
As a crossed the street
I met a bus, Full of nuns, all in a fuss
There was no contest, the bus sure won
I was run over and ready for a place with no sun
I arrived in hell, this surly no surprise
At least I was drunk, or so Satan surmised
He looked confused and asked who am I?
A Lawyer? a Dictator? or maybe I was both?
I apologized profusely for I surely was not
Any of those professions, I'm no in their lot
He asked if I was expecting 72 virgins?
As drunk as I was, I said I was not
He was angry and mad, there was doubt
What could the Devil do? He seemed in a stew
So he gave me a degree, in Law and Justice
So I could live in hell among all the others untrusted!
Notes: No Lawyers were hurt or maimed in the writing of this poem, and I apologize for that!
Poem | |
When Will My Nightmare End?
You left behind your fathers and mothers;
you left behind your husbands and wives.
You put on hold, your very lives.
You traveled to a land and stated
You have come to help all those slated
to be victims of a regime outdated.
At night you drove ahead,
into a nightmare filled with dread.
Into streets filled with danger.
Completely wary of any stranger.
To what end you asked in pain?
What in the world can we possibly gain?
The only answer you could find
was in your heart and all you left behind.
As you drive these haunted streets
the sound of gunfire so close it speaks.
It speaks of dangers still unknown,
it screams of evil to atone.
This land, in truth, is death and sand
it is truly a "NO man's land"
By; John Cervone
This is dedicated to all the National Guard Troops who served in IRAQ.
Poem | |
Most certainly, the world could not agree
With how the dies were cast, that fateful day,
If not for love, 'twould never come to me
the reason she put out, so willingly.
Her belly dancing, gave me my first clue,
That easy comes her love, her night was mine,
Scheherazad dressed out in shades of blue,
and made her touch both prescious and divine.
It was enough just witniissing her charm,
And yet her teasing, took he to her high,
In little time, my fire was fifth alarm,
And Cairo felt her heat as sure did I.
In ectasy, I paused to roll the dies,
Just as I fell in love between her thighs.
© Ron Wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Poem | |
Poem | |
That devilish smile
Can be permanent
On my pretty face
but all i hear is blabla
That mean-like look
Across that forehead
Plastered with no force
But do i care?
Booze smells bad
Smoking.. I hate ashtrays
Chocolates are fatty carbs
Fake gold makes my eyes frown
Stop looking like a clown
I want you out my door
Boy,do i want you out that door
Nobody calls me a female dog
Now go slam the door on your way out
**Havent choose a category or title,for the JOB contest-You have to guess my idle Job*.*
After Job contest judged ill write it down;) So come back in a month or a few weeks **