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Best Culture Poems

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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.


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


Details | Culture Poem |

SO CRAZY

Between you and me 
is a vast sea
Language and culture
not the same
So very little I know
of your history
But girl I'm so crazy
about your name

We're an ocean apart
yet I feel you
Paint from a distance
somehow I see
You write as an angel
your soul's true
Oh girl I'm so crazy 
how can it be...

That Venus and Mars
are so magnetic
The Yin and the Yang
do their thing
Sunshine and night sky
both romantic
Yeah girl I'm so crazy
I've got to sing

The song in my heart
awe and wonder
Close my eyes and ask
can this be true
Love's incredible rush
amazing thunder
Sweet island girl, I'm 
so crazy 'bout you

Date: 7-22-14
Poet: Dave Wood


Details | Culture Poem |

A KING ARTHUR HOME

                  
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


Details | Culture Poem |

MADE IN CHINA

"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 
"MADE IN CHINA"

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;
"MADE IN CHINA"

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.

MADE IN CHINA 
Shipped easily in a box

~SKAT~


Details | Culture Poem |

SPIRIT RIDER

Alone figure stands, 
On sunsets rock.
Summers hot breezes brush,
Against bare skins flesh.
Stalking the ageless path.
Behold histories Indian brave, 
Man, and horse intertwined.
Symbiotic beings joined,
They are one.
The spirit rider gallops, 
Across freedoms trail.
Cautiously, allying arrow unto bow,
Aiming swiftly his shot to kill.
Guardian’s raging bull charges,
Forward.
Protectors sacrifice, blood mingles,
Amongst dust clouds aftermath, 
His majesty lies slain.
Dark brown eyes close, 
Glimpsing blue sky for the,
Last time.
Heavens prairies, welcome destiny's,
Honorable foe,
The hunter kneels beside the giant's,
Stilled heart,
Giving thanks, singing chants rise,
Ascending heights greener, 
Pastures unto a higher plain.
It echoes in valleys deep,
Touching the lands of his,
 Fore fathers.
Tonight beneath flames tribal fires,
Rhythms beating drums, gives praise,
Many shall celebrate, feasting,
 In memories tribute,

  BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN


Details | Culture Poem |

Trapped

My spirit and soul are trapped in this vessel of flesh. They scream to escape and to be liberated and soar on the breezes of life. To frolic freely among the trees, among the clouds and to run without weight and care.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they want to get out. Out from under all the stress and demand in life out from all the evil and hate of the world.

My spirit and soul are trapped in demand to perform, to keep a smile when I am down, to keep a stiff upper lip.

My spirit and soul are trapped to work for things and objects, to keep up with Jones and Kardashians. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that all men are made equal when the reality of this world says different, that only green currency is the great equalizer. 

My spirit and soul are trapped into believing that single is not wholeness that it is necessary to be joined with another body to be view without stigma.

My spirit and soul are trapped in a body not acceptable because it's fat, it's woman and it's black and aging.

My spirit and soul are trapped and they are screaming to be free... screaming to reveal all the possibilities of how good life could be if I just didn't give a damn about who thinks what about me.


Details | Culture Poem |

Woosh vs Zroooom--a limerick joke

A vacuum cleaner should glide
And relief from messes provide
It is quite unlike
Harley Davidson's bike
Since the dirtbag's on the inside



Author's note: Someone told me this vapid joke at work today, so I framed it as above--enjoy!


Details | Culture Poem |

Mantra in Mantle

They don’t walk to them
To beseech their shows of hands
They as a rule stay
On a raised dais and talk down
At their feet on crusade grounds


Details | Culture Poem |

Under A Miccosukee Sky


Big Cypress stirs, heated by Miccosukee 
sky hung in spun gold. Rising in the east, 
morning sways with waves of river grass
as the elder paddles through waking water
in dugout canoe. Bare-chested, he whistles
an old, creek song, lost and found in tangles 
of green swampland. Bronzed face chiseled from
stone gazes on soft, flush of Indian summer;  
a burning heart beats with nature beneath. 
In hand, he clenches twine of sacred bundle. 
Beads of sweat fall from head lowered in prayer
to the Creator. His silent prayer for earth, hunt, 
harvest and tradition collides with modern tribal
life, a quiet moment complicated by thoughts of 
upcoming ceremonial festivities. If only,
he could step back in time to dance in ancient 
garments 'round sacred fire free from tourists’ pale,
intruding eyes. His daughter and wife will sew
and bead jewelry to sell; his grandsons will wrestle 
alligators; and he, the elder, will stand proud,
fighting to maintain dignity and culture under 
a warm Miccosukee sky, hung by his ancestors
...in spun gold.


By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 11/17/13
for Shanity Rain's Native American People Contest  


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