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Best Culture Poems

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Black Culture White Society by brown, tiara
America the Worlds Hope for Peace and Prosperity Has Become A Culture of Death by Jennings, Marilyn
Miss Bahamian Culture by Pratt, Mia A.S.
Enduring Spinning: Agriculture, Culture and War by Ronnow, Robert
Democracy of culture: I, Icon by DE PAZ, Mario
Maintenance culture by nnoli, richard
Souls of our culture by Halliday, Mark J.
Double Knotted Culture by Dillenbeck, Gerald

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The Best Culture Poems

Details | Culture Poem | |

Ancient Warrior

I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed their tears two hundred years like rain. 

Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.

You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.  

You’ve heard sad cries and now stand at their side,
You join the prayers with both arms open wide,
United spirits sing until the dawn,
When in the fire’s flames a golden fawn.

Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.

The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
Giorgio A.V. Contest 
Iambic Pentameter 
1st place

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans

More great poems below...

Details | Culture Poem | |

Tibetan Tears

My heart aches for
Your hearts that break. 
I shed tears mingling with 
Yours for the forgotten years;
The tortured monks and nuns…
For your people who suffer still
With no voice to teach
Your hopeless, hungry, young.
Only your elder's tears
Know of the deep sorrow
Of your lost lives, lost culture,
Your sacred Buddhist beliefs,
Your divine history that
Continues to be destroyed.
Even as your dead fall
You do not hate…
You only wish to liberate
Those loving souls who
Remain as strangers in their
Own beloved land.
Let me be your voice
To join with other voices that
Will help you attain freedom.

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong

Details | Culture Poem | |

This is not a poem--- A singled out page


Hey, Poets stop by, give me a shout out.
Tell Me Where You Are From;)
I promise I won't show up on your doorstep.

If you are having a bad day, let me have it
If you have awesome news, don't be greedy 
By all means  --- SHARE THE NEWS!!!

.................  LOVE THE POET DESTROYER 

Copyright © Poet Destroyer A

Details | Culture Poem | |

Mirror Ball

I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,

A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.

The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.

The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.

Gene Bourne

Copyright © Gene Bourne

Details | Culture Poem | |

A Love Story

The girl is an ultra-modern scholar, 
Belongs with an upper-middle class family. 
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly. 
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University. 
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare, 
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket. 
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....

The girl is very good.

The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...

The boy is very good.

They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The  girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his. 
They are changing silently
Losing individuality.

Time flows.
Love goes to another address... 


Copyright © Sandip Goswami

Details | Culture Poem | |


A time for many a part-time passion, like the discarded skin of Esprit jeans and low-hip waistline baring pierced navel with flavor of a chase on the run… would he dare confess real love as the world tolled for Lady Diana and Charles? You with me… moon to sun, fire to burn our eyes… I swing on an illusion and steal the time away, rustling along a Mustang’s back seat, while some 8-CD tract pleads, "Do you think I’m sexy,’’ dipping in steams of instant affection. How deep-cheeked your thrills like Indiana Jones , knocking me off-balance: and I, a fool ignoring the pain that you may never Stand By Me, never in blinks of thousand stars, a recycled tune melting in the sand now you’re just ozone’s hole... I wrap the scenes along Route 25, as bittersweet time passes by. Alone. Kelly Deschler's Decades Contest ``Do You Think I'm Sexy and Stand By Me-- top 80s songs

Copyright © nette onclaud

Details | Culture Poem | |


She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.

We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".

One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.

A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in; 
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.

I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.

How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.

Gene Bourne.


Copyright © Gene Bourne

Details | Culture Poem | |

Well of Souls

How many souls
live on the edge,
Between the gutter 
and the ledge?

A hopeless fear
crawls in their gut.
Each day, another,
endless rut.

The moments pass
profoundly slow.
Sad, bitter winds,
are all that blow.

A man lay huddled,
near the bin.
Hoping death,
will take him in.

Frozen tears, on
wrinkled cheeks.
Frostbitten ears, and 
shoes that leak.

His mind forgets
the games of tag,
Old Crockett's hill,
where down they'd slide.

A summer rain,
the puddles deep,
out catchin' toads,
to tame and keep.

His life began
with dimpled cheeks.
Red tousled hair,
and hide 'n seek.

A tough old Dad
who tricked and teased.
A pretty Mom
who smiled with ease.

They had a farm
with fields of hay.
A few old hogs,
and bills to pay.

One summer day,
the sky turned black.
A howling wind,
brought down their shack.

Dad sold the hogs,
and cut the hay.
The farm was lost,
we drove away.

The next two years,
were grim and lean.
Dad broke his back,
to feed us beans.

When winter came,
our food ran out.
We found old Dad
hung by a rope.

Without poor Dad,
no food, or fire;
Mom took my hand,
the day was dire.

The Sister's face
looked mean and sour.
I thought of Mom
most every hour.

They scrubbed my back
until it bled,
cut off my hair;
then I got fed.

'Twas many years
before I left.
My Mom had died
a tragic death.

Now all alone,
I lived and slept.
I begged for food,
and sometimes wept.

A life of days,
and endless woe.
Now time is dead,
and death too slow.

As you walk by
those 'homeless freaks',
Remember me,
with dimpled cheeks.

Copyright © Kimberly Shaw

Details | Culture Poem | |


"Made In China"

They can have my money
If it saves me money

The toys I played with when I was young,
Says I enjoyed their hands
The Labels read 

The cheap material on my back, the shoes I wore. 
How easily they faded and tore
However, I enjoyed their hands
The Tags on my rags;

The car I own saves money on gas
A tiny Honda Civic, takes me everywhere
I love my sweet silver car
"Manufactured in China"

The never been used--Made in the USA--cookware I own,
Says, I don't work hard at all:)
Yummy to Chinese all you can eat take Outs  
Thank you China for being part of this world
Better Yet!
Thank you China, for making this world a part of yours.

Shipped easily in a box


Copyright © SKAT A

Details | Culture Poem | |

Cyber real

Has the convenience of technology 
inoculated us from reality?
Do androids dream of electric sheep?
I pray the code my soul to keep?
Does your universe live within 4G
Or megapixel infinity?
Which memory lies within
The one that was
Or the one that's been
Or how much gig how much ram?
Which reality is true?
Cyber me
Or cyber you?
Cyber bully
Cyber crime
Cyber hate 
Cyber time?
Cyber boxer
Or cyber brief?
Who is the real identity thief?
Cyber pleasure
Cyber pain
Hours spent glaring into the screen
Choosing an alternate username.
Status updates and trending tweets
Fill your mind and rob your sleep.
Clever hashtags and Instagram 
Will shape your image and gain more friends.
Is the you you've shaped in cyberspace 
The same you I'd see face to face?
We hide behind our computer screens
And criticize with brutal ease.
Virtual reality
Is buying souls of men you see 
And robbing the ability to dream real dreams.
I want to conquer something real
That I can grab that I can feel.
I want to touch life and hold on tight
I want to unblock true friends
And "like" real sights.
I want conversation face to face
In real world time
In a real world place.

Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw

Details | Culture Poem | |


The history of man defines Ape as a primate. Man seems to be in that mind-set today. He lives life as pent because he denies himself religious freedoms. God refined humankind once before and, therefore, he will do the same once more. The factor ends when iniquity meets perilous world. The mania of man will bring forth extinction. In parable, the elderly wisdom was predefined by the life they had lived since the beginning of time. They had seen themselves within their prime and captured these elements through their way of life. Their beauty was not a basis to define. They were primates of mammal and nomadic. Their skin was olive nonwhite via sunshine. They hunted with self-made weapons and brought back a feast many times. However, one male cultivated the mind. He invented weapons for prosperity. An abundance of wealth all received.
Today is venturous. Humankind has crested to another prehistoric image. Our originations through inventions and development have implemented innovations. Our minds must continue to reinvent not to become another mandrill. The core of our existence relies on this. We are human beings and the highest intelligence. Insofar as, we are not predetermine. Insofar as, we are no predestine to a grandeur form. Insofar as, we see no more adjustments that are required for humankind physiological form. We have peaked physiologically. Therefore, we will henceforth to inform our mental faculty. ____________________________________________________|
Penned on October 19, 2014!

Copyright © Verlena S. Walker

Details | Culture Poem | |

An Unshakable Identity

hospitality, peace and mutual respect; we’ve chosen because the key to our prosperity is love, unity and cooperation settlers now on the cheat as our true identity is kept frozen but no matter what! We will reverse it with our landmark ordination the threats against our heritage and culture may have risen it has kept us unique, unshakable and uncompromising though there are bastard judases in every dozen the failure and exposure of their deeds are amusing the buckles of our identity we will never loosen no matter how the invader tries strategizing or putting our inheritance into some sort of categorizing No! is the answer, none of us will lose being a complete citizen

Copyright © Funom Makama

Details | Culture Poem | |


How many emotional tears have we so cried, us the unperfected,
The Barbie generational rejected, or Ken doll unrealistic Idol worship.
Cursed by society’s vision of ultimate beauty, wake up world
For are we all not human, and subject to fragilities faults of reality.
Oh to remove the textured veils of the masked disguised,
To reveal the inner face of grace hidden within the soul itself.
For true beauty lies inside the heart of innocence,
Or underneath the timeless wrinkles of ages experience,
One must just remove the blinders of ignorance, to see it
In clarities truth sight line of view.
Where are these mythical people of perfections achievement?
From where do they dwell, or come from these visions of
Illusionary beings, which we so strive to be like?
Nay do suffer the youth of the future to measure up,
To an irrational delusion, a mirages camouflage of lies
Dreaming child of occult fiction, this is deadly ground
From which you tread upon, for reality vision is obscured
By plastic surgeries faults hoods of realism.
Vintage are the mirrors in this fun house of lies,
Let us cover these soul suffocating devices,
Or shatter the glass of reflected illusions.
Then shall we embrace our differences, allowing the next
Generation to breathe a long sigh, of relief at last.
To accept and express their own individuality without
Social oppression, or misconceptions of beauty,
Then enriching the world with glorious infusions
Of unguarded inspirational promise.
What a wondrous planet of enlightment this would
Be if utopia really could exist, unfettered by mankind’s
Unclouded mind of perfection.
Forever after all is short time in the eyes of humanity,
Let us hold our children high and nurturing them with love
And respect, no matter what, not judging them by their
Beauty marks of imperfections,
Instead allowing them to shine in the glow of inspiration


Copyright © cherl dunn

Details | Culture Poem | |


Beware, out-Lander for thy tread on the sacred ground,
Of Louisiana, guarded by the ghosts of the Mississippi,
And here the dead tell know tails, of the living's returning,
After adventuring into the darkness of the night.
Rattle them bones, sister voodoo woman,
Black magic's high priestess, cast asunder the 
Ivory teeth of the white devils, across the streets
Of old New Orleans, behold the ancient city of lost souls.
Hidden beneath the glittering mask, of La Carnival,
It is the celebration of the dead, my friend, and faceless
Figures, do toss the beads of evil, to the lustful
Crowds gathering, for Mardi-Grad's extravaganza.
Phantom walkers, without names or emotions, spirit stalkers,
Roaming the old French quarter, seeking to catch the
Innocent traveler unaware and unprotected. 
A wall of realism and illusion, thin is the veils that divide
Light and darkness, sheer vaporous mist of transparency,
Existing in this the forgotten realm, where southern
Comfort invites the living to visit, but never allows them
To leave alive.
As the flickering rays of twilight fades, swallowed whole
By the spectral invaders, the creatures of light seek refuges,
Holy places, as the church bells ring, calling unto the innocent
Make heist to salvation's shelters of grace.
In he city's center, lays a dry leathery organ, sunken
And misshapen, feel the rising, the awakening of the
Heart of evil emerging, its veins arteries made of 
Cobble stones brick, thus are the webbing's of streets leading, 
Unto the deadened heart, metamorphosing it alive once more.
Slowly bloods spiritual essence rushes through
These ethereal veins, reaching this source most
Evil, it owns this city of lost souls, unto the tolling
Hour of dawns first rays of light, crossing the horizon.
Red bricked buildings lay side by side one 
Another, in a design of Gothic manipulation, feeding
Stations made cozy for the living and dead to reside
Within, as the crimson curtains blow freely from the 
Inside out, welcome my friends to the French quarters,
The threshold's crossing, between life and death.
Hear the low thumping of the Jamaican drum,
Mixed with African tongue, chanting in rhythm's
Echoing breeze, softly spoken in whispers are the spells
Of misfortune, a vow's crimson promise, written in blood
Long ago, a demonic pack made between the spiritual native
Inhabitance and the dark heart of the Cajun Bayou.
On bloods throne the Grim Reaper does so sit, next 
To his bride, the Queen known as Mrs. New Orleans,
Both laughing in tandem, with the musical chorus
In this requiem of the dammed.


Copyright © cherl dunn

Details | Culture Poem | |


An age-spotted hand pulls back faded flour sack curtains
in the window of an old run-down farmhouse
A woman    gray hair combed neatly into a bun
peers across the side fence that belched 
most of its pickets during the last fierce storm

She looks at the knotted wire clothesline
Remembers when it was filled with
little slips covered in miniature pansies
and the King Arthur logo
flapping in the springtime breeze

She preferred King Arthur to Gold Medal
for the flour sacks washed up softer
felt nicer against the skin

Her generation learned to make over
make do    or do without

Her little girl once got excited 
to pick the designs on new bags of flour
Then happily rode the pedal 
on the treadle sewing machine 
while mother stitched a new pinafore

The woman slowly moves into the kitchen
Washes up remnants of a lonely meal
Dries one cup and one plate 
with a neatly hemmed flour sack towel

Remembers how she always kept
her girl’s hair in tight pigtails
tied with store-bought ribbons
Some things    small things
didn’t have to be made by hand

Remembers the day her girl removed the braids    
combed thick hair to fall loosely about her shoulders
and stepped smartly through the door
in search of her own life
So many years ago

She does now    as she did then
and cries softly into her flour sack apron

For Whatever Happened to Flour Sacks contest 
sponsored by Judy Konos

Copyright © Monterey Sirak

Details | Culture Poem | |

Comin' Hame - Coming Home -Scottish Dialect

A angry sky, as cauld as Loch Lomon'
fair drew me out from cot o' peat, an' bed.
The wolves wus wailin', an' thund'r respond'd
Ah gather'd tam, me tartan, an' dug Red.
To  'orse ah took an' found the 'erd sam 'urt. 
The 'ungry wolves 'ad already fed. 
Inta the bi'er blaw, the rill ah skirt 
thro braes a white, t'ward ham an' fire burnin'
the bleatin' sheep, the 'orse an' ah alert.
We wud mak it hame, stomaches churnin'
O smell the peat fire on the wild wind now,
'ear the cows faint distant ca', a lowin'
'erself wud know, we'r near ta the brow.
Noo, we 'ad beat the storm hame, an' kep' me vow.

Dedicated to Jimbo Goff & James Fraser
and the spirit of Robin Burns

See About the Poem

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Culture Poem | |

Who's Who

Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
Said the clown with a funny face.
Many different cultures.
Within the human race.
Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
A lion, a bear, an elephant, a giraffe.
Many different animals.
All which make us laugh.
Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
A barber, a tailor, a dressmaker's store.
Many different occupations.
Make your way through the door.
A Catholic, A Christian, A Saint, and A Jew.
Many different religions.
While we feed Central Park's pigeons.
Who's who in the New York Zoo? 
Said the man with a great big shoe.
Find your subway to paridise! 

Zoo York Poetry By Kim Robin Edwards
Copyright 2010,2014..All rights reserved

Copyright © Kim Robin Edwards

Details | Culture Poem | |


Quarried,  and carved from our earthen mother's skeletal
Backbone and under belly, were the Moai solid rock deities,
Stone guardians of Easter Island.
A mystical place, a harvested paradise, but nothing remains
Of the people whom built this land of living statues, except
For these harden faces, looking towards the ocean, as if in 
Wait for their native worshipers to return.
Sit and listen my friend, to the whispering in the wind,
Do you hear the low humming sound, rolling across
The rocky and jagged surf. 
It is the Moai, calling unto the five raw elements of the world.
Let us live again, to walk among the heavens vast 
Divides, and to feel the winds breeze at our faces
Once more.
Slowly the ground shifts and moves, rumbles and
Quakes, lightening splits as thunder strikes against 
The harden ground, nature itself has heard them,
And answers their wishes with life anew.
Shedding layers textures by depths degree, piece by
Piece, stone turns into gravel, rough rock is smoothed,
Hued by mystic incantations spell, brick becomes
Bone, and nature answers their wishes with life anew.
Living giants pull themselves up out of the earth,
Shaking away debris's leavings, and thus shall
Stone breaths, inhaling freedom's fresh air at last.
Behold the living god's of Stone, guardians of
An ancient culture lost unto time itself.
But at dusk's fading sunset, the spell is thus
Broken and slowly these giant figures take
Their places once again, melting as if it
Never happened, yet the humming still
Lingers echoing across the ocean.
For stone God's never forget, and waiting
On Easter Island do they so sit, monuments
To a people whom disappeared without a trace.
But their deities shall call unto them until
One day they'll return, and then maybe 
Giants again shall walk this earth in 
Celebration, to feast amongst their people
Once more.


Copyright © cherl dunn

Details | Culture Poem | |

Let Me Become You, Indigenous

Let me hug you, human, and be one being,
Let the stars shine and go for sightseeing,
Let us share smiles under the moon,
Let our children play together at noon,
Let us be storytellers of justice and truth,
Let our people join our energetic youth,
Let us stroll in mountains and the huge lands,
Let us harvest and mix our colourful hands,
Let our souls heal the wounds of the past,
Let our hearts share lovely dreams so vast,
Let me make a step forward and close the gap,
Let me start a new page and recreate the map,
Let our lands be neighbours of one community,
Let me raise my head, at last, for the unity,
Let the rain fill my eyes so I water my mind,
Let me make a statement that we were blind,
Let these words make an epic song so original,
Let me become you, oh beautiful aboriginal,
Let the indigenous of you paint my words,
Let us swim like fishes and fly like birds,
Let me give you what is yours and all of what is mine,
Let us plan our future and for our past build a shrine.

Monday, 26th of November 2012

Copyright © HSK AlKendi

Details | Culture Poem | |

Broken English

I love my broken English

Am in love with my broken English

Am honored to have two other languages

The ability to think from language to language is one that many don't experience 
The ability to bring vibes from one language to another is one, that many envy

Sometimes it's like a train, English flows easily before it gets to a halt
Sometimes it's a bus with many stops, some harsh, some dash, some flash
And some mistakenly whether car or train, crash 
Some like aeroplane, are up there in the air
Building their own castles
Creating unfamiliar words

Whether writing from kikuyu to English 
Or kikuyu to Swahili and then to English 
Or just writing from the little dash of English that I learnt from my English classes,
With poetry,I can still escape 
Whether in the veiled grammatical errors
        Or just like a volatile chameleon

Copyright © njeri hunjeri

Details | Culture Poem | |

Sexual Addictions Are Destroying Our Families

Sexual Addictions Are Destroying Our Families!
Many families are being destroyed by sexual addictions!
As they bring into their homes unneeded afflictions!

There are affairs of adultery of all different kinds…
As many allow sin’s pollution to destroy their mind!

Many have no comprehension or fail to see…
The filth of garbage being promoted on t.v.!

Rather than seeking God for his blood’s protection.
Husbands and wives look to others for affection.

God looks and sees the wounded and broken heart.
And before you know it, another family falls apart!

Too much of this is happening in churches today.
Will these families just come together and pray?

It’s time to come together as a family and be strong!
Let’s get rid of the things in our life that don’t belong!

Let’s seek the purity and holiness of God above.
And be strengthened by his majestic love!

Let’s seek God’s protection over our families too!
And speak kind words to another, like; “I LOVE YOU!”

May the love of Christ come and bind us as ONE!
And touch every father, mother, daughter and son!

Lord Jesus, we all need you so much!  This very hour!
We can’t make it alone!  Without your power!

Please Jesus, restore what the enemy has taken!
I’ve never seen your children left or forsaken!

You are the only one that our family has needed!
Only by your love, will our family be completed!

By Jim Pemberton   11/23/14

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

Details | Culture Poem | |


In this old sensing bad world,
Old is good,
The old culture,
Listening to a song nature,
Music their literature,
A violin at every home,
Like one with Nero Rome,
Violin in feminine for the men then,
A fiddle in the middle of hands,
The four strings of violin like four nerves of women,
Carrying not blood but fear,incomprehension,shyness,
And loathing no men but own men,
The women were pure like music from violin,
The old not violent,
But a good violin,
Oh Girl! let the music play on from the old violin!

(Basing on the culture of our South Asian bounds)

Copyright © Muhammad Safa Thajudeen

Details | Culture Poem | |

Holidays - Cinqku


black Friday
turkey burping
tryptophan tornado
red ink

Church bells
disturb the secular -

John G. Lawless

submitted - Dr. Ram Mehta – Cinqku Poem – Poetry contest 

Copyright © John lawless

Details | Culture Poem | |

What If Christmas Never Came

What If Christmas Never Came??? What if Christmas never happened? What if Christmas never came? Things around here would be different! It wouldn’t be the same! What if the baby Jesus wasn’t born in a manger? Mankind would be in serious trouble and in danger! If Jesus wasn’t born... There’d be no nativity. We wouldn’t be able to display this during our “festivity.” It’s almost like this now! It’s an “ever increasing business.” It seems like nearly everyone wants “Christ out of Christmas!” Why does it seem like Christmas is losing it’s true meaning? The very words; “Merry Christmas,” seem to be quickly disappearing! As many say; “Happy Holiday.” They worry they may “offend.” Having a “holiday” without Christ…. Once again! We need to put Jesus Christ back into our CHRISTmas season! He is what Christmas is about! HE is the very reason! May we all take some time to rejoice in our savior’s birth. May there be shouts of JOY! From the corners of the earth! Let’s not take Christ out of our joyous celebration! We need him so much right now! All over this great nation! May we bring to him a heart of love for everything he’s done. As we bring honor to Christ. God’s precious son! May we continually offer to him a heart filled with praise! Not only at Christmas time… But all of our days! By Jim Pemberton 12/05/11

Copyright © Jim Pemberton

Details | Culture Poem | |

Around the Corner

Cold reality and despair lay around the corner.
Humanity's unclean sleep on its hardened edges,
holding crumpled cardboard signs, asking for money.
Those who believe themselves above it all, hurry,
to get a greater distance, as though trapped by 
a predator stalking them for their lives,
and as they pass, they never look back,
fear leaves no concern.
Around this corner is a road, lined by old,
crumbling concrete, empty stores, with broken windows.
It's a hollow corner where garbage lays,
some tumbling by the passing cars,
left to stay languishing until the next car passes,
moving it further down the street.
The only building in use is occupied by a liquor store,
that has a blinking sign where only three letters work.
Happier times for this corner never was,
and will never be.
Even the poor stay away from its cold path,
leaving it to slowly decay.
Hope, there is none, only words painted on concrete walls,
that no one will ever read.
Around this corner hides death and those with body bags,
to remove them from a place where those who pass,
are above it all, detached from this world,
concerned only for their hurried lives.
As they pass some leave a couple of dollars,
dropping it into a cold whithered hand,
telling themselves they did a good thing today,
as they move through a world of despair,
around the corner.

contest Around the Corner
Frederic Parker

Copyright © Frederic Parker