Poem | |
Travelling to a foreign land,
engaging in a cause not rightfully yours to join,
illegally taking up arms
with a desperate desire to save baby orphans
(only to dig them into the ground anyway);
is a life-altering experience.
There is an old line which goes something like:
"A part of my soul died on that cold, November morn."
But, such an experience can have the opposite effect entirely.
Yes! An experience such as this
can re-kindle a passion within,
so that every single particle,
every minute of each passing hour,
feels like a sacred gift -
the most sacred gift imaginable.
Yet upon returning home from such an experience,
after being grilled by Internal Affairs,
threatened with charges of International Treason,
Subterfuge and Espionage(but in the end,
you were only trying to save baby orphans
that you had to dig into the ground anyway,
so Internal Affairs drops the charges, telling you to scram),
you are inevitably slapped across the face
with an inescapable new reality....
....everyone appears to be whining and complaining
about the most trivial things,
as if everyone simultaneously feels wronged.
And this is wot you feel compelled to do:
you want to take these whiners,
transport them one-by-one
back to the foreign land with you.
After they see living skeletons
drag themselves across the dirt,
moaning, groaning, pleading for a drop of clean water,
a miniscule morsel of food,
you hand the whiner a gun,
point toward an ominous dust-cloud on the horizon,
and this is wot you say:
"See the dust-cloud moving closer towards us.
It is filled with psychopathic horsemen.
These psychopathic butchers are wielding bayonets, machetes and Kalashnikovs.
If you and I do not successfully kill these mad horsemen,
they are going to chop apart all of the baby orphans
congregated in the courtyard over there.
Do you see the beautiful baby orphans in the courtyard?
Yes, those are the orphans.
And if we do not successfully defend this camp,
yet somehow survive with our lives,
we are going to spend the rest of the night
digging the baby orphans into the ground.
So, it best be high time you wipe the tears from your face,
stop worrying about how so-and-so called you a loser or wotever,
how your retirement funds appear to be shrinking
and so you won't be able to play as many games
of hitting the little white ball across a course
fed with enough water to run an entire city.
Forget about your little boo-boo.
Pull-up your chin, straighten that spine,
and start squeezing the trigger like there's no tomorrow."
September 25th, 2011
Poem | |
I never got to dance with Mary Jane
although I heard she sure knows how to swing!
She has a twin, and he is masculine;
he doesn’t have his sister’s magic powers,
her mystic way of calming people down
or bringing sweet relief for those in pain.
His tall and sturdy body has been used
for textiles, ropes, and oil. There’s so much more
that he could give us if we only would
allow the cultivation of his skills.
We might renew our plastics and we could
preserve our forests, for he is so good
when he replaces wood. Why is he shunned?
It’s simply for his ties with Mary Jane!
But why has she been banned across the globe?
She has abilities. Not psycho-active,
she helps the sick. Those undergoing chemo
can find relief with her; she’s antiemetic.
She’s anti many things that bring us woe.
Convulsions, inflammation, cancer and
depression are not all she fights against.
An anti-oxidant, she can relieve
disorders plaguing many on this earth.
They say she is the gateway to bad things,
yet she is safer than our cigarettes
that kill so many folks. I’ve never heard
that Mary Jane directly caused a death!
We let our people drink. Behind the wheel,
they drive and kill, yet those who take a drive
with Mary Jane are said to take things slow!
Of course she is misused by high school kids,
who should not dance with Mary Jane until
their brains are fully formed. Yes, she might cause
a temporary loss of memory,
but dancing with her should not be a crime.
We ought to focus on REAL criminals.
To lock her lovers up? A travesty!
Successful people cry for liberty
of Mary Jane. They’re smart and talented.
Jon Stewart, Andrew Sullivan, Phil Jackson,
and Angelie Jolie, to name a few.
Rush Limbaugh even needed Mary Jane
To get through all his shows (I threw that in
To show Republicans have loved her too,
Like Sarah Palin and George W!)
Ted Turner in his office dances with
sweet Mary Jane, and Michael Bloomberg is
quite proud to partner with her in a dance.
George Clooney is her advocate. He rocks!
And Morgan Freeman says he never will
give up “the ganja.” Neither will one guy
who danced with her since he was in his youth.
This guy, named Paul, has got by very well
with help from Mary Jane, his little friend!
Another famous man says Mary Jane
had helped him stay a human when in ‘Nam.
Maya Angelou danced “with abandon”
with her! Bill Gates, Rick Steve. . .the list goes on.
Who better to declare that she is safe
than Johnny Depp, who says that alcohol
is far more dangerous. I must agree
with Aniston, who said of Mary Jane:
“All things in moderation.” Anything
can be abused. The very food we eat
leads to obesity when it’s misused.
I’ve never had the pleasure of a dance
with Mary Jane, but I’ll be first in line
when she is legal. I’ll conclude with this:
Dear Martha Stewart, I heard you could bake
one mean green brownie. Where can I get one?
for the "Global Poetry" Poetry Contest of Debbie Guzzi
Poem | |
I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Poem | |
Love is not a color,
No hue, neither a race.
All of our blood is the same,
That runs deep within our veins.
If we could lift up each other,
And know that we all care.
If we help our sisters and brothers,
There's a bond that we'll share.
©2013 Honestly JT
Poem | |
we strive to make sure
each day enlightens us
and brightens us
even as light fades to gray
may we keep fighting
with two swollen feet
beneath the body and soul
and intense life lessons
meshed with stresses
may we persevere
turn off fear's song
may we stand firm
as we glide along
through shifty winds of change
that may cause things to sway
but we hold true
inside the values and morality
we stand for
fall for nothing
may stumble along the trip
may swerve at the wheel yet
do not lose our grip
because no one
can eclipse the sun
before they're done
Just when situations arise
flooding us with pain we despise
and just when it seems like
our tear ducts are dry
from ongoing cries
we may think
things are on the brink of ending
then God shows us the ways of faith
by way of love that he's sending
we make sure
every day enlightens us
and brightens us
as each day takes its turn.
Poem | |
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number -
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you -
Ye are many - they are few.'
From the poem: "The Mask of Anarchy" written by Percy Bysshe Shelley
how frail you seem in certain angles of light and shadow,
with your cavities,
fractured attention deficiency,
and thickening skin of apathy.
You are a victim to the plague,
playing amongst flowers filled with poison,
staring at screens to fill in the boredom
of having your young mind brimming
with over-stimulation -
information seeps in without warning,
beamed into your skull
by 360 degrees
of high-def, infra-red, wireless mobility.
24/7 programming of insidious adverts
breaches your skull in a mind-rape,
proving how the Death of a Salesman
was only a sideshow distraction
for the Kleptocracy to successfully purchase
the dark side of the moon -
control the tides,
control the mind,
buying our hearts and souls
in order to auction off our future
to the highest bids of people already dead.
yet I believe in you,
there is still hope left upon your shoulders.
You are strong,
your mind cuts like a blade.
And if you care,
if you dare,
what a significant burden for you to bare.
The time has come,
the time is ripe,
this is it,
there are no more second chances.
I pray for your success,
for you are our very last hope.
Please learn from my mistakes and failures,
absorb the goodness I have left to offer.
I tried, I truly did,
but the Hydra spat me out as a broken man.
we left seeds inside the belly of the beast
for you to survive on within.
God speed, take heed,
do not attack the Kleptocracy from the outside,
its Dragon's heads will cut you down -
will cut you down without mercy.
You must advance peacefully
with a rogue's armour of false calm,
let the machine devour you whole.
Bide your time,
survive on the leftover seeds,
dismantle the Hydra from the inside,
rewrite the program from within.
shed the tired cloak of apathy,
don the mask of alternate endings,
de-rail this present destiny.
Everything rides on you now,
everything rides on you.
The Kleptocracy broke my back,
but my mind is still intact,
and I know you can do better than I did,
believe that you can do better than we did.
I pray for your success,
pray for your safety and protection,
everything rides on you,
everything rides on you now.
December 8th, 2011
Poem | |
You are a human being they told me, something you should treasure
But isn't a human being the only animal who kills for pleasure?
Man's inhumanity to man, a crime like no other
The first family on earth had brother killing brother
We are power hungry bastards from the cradle to the grave
We pillage other countries and the survivors we enslave
Politicians lie to their people saying only what they want to hear
Stripping their own of a sense of pride and instilling a state of fear
They speak of human rights and how our country has been torn
Then turn around and murder a child before he's even born
For killers and rapists and dealers the ACLU has led many fights
Then tell a six year old rape victim that she really has no civil rights
We can't teach about Jesus, our school teachers must be mum
We can teach about Hitler, Stalin and other human scum
People kill each other for no reason every day
Then a lower form of life, a lawyer saves his day
Where is justice? Nowhere in sight.
Anything is legal if the price is right
You are a human being. This is what they proudly proclaim
If I am a human being, then I should hang my head in shame.
Poem | |
It seems like everybody around me has forgotten,
they're stuck on a thought again,
saying alot and whining more.
Preying on their own self-doubts,
they have so much,
yet see so little.
Can't they see that 64 inch TV,
or feel the beating of the jets in their hot tub ?
They measure their lives too much,
they have fallen into the "Great American Dream Sham"
as my friend "Chad Williams Lowther" would say !
Its a ruse,
so they can make changes in their lives which they normally wouldn't do,
because they lack the strength and insight,
so they get stuck in their minds.
and the damn kids are really suffering,
cause they don't have the latest video gizmo box.
Thoughtless over-reactions of self- abuse,
much like an addict who is never satisfied.
"The Great American Dream Sham" sucked them in,
macroni and cheese,
saturday morning cartoons and matinees.
All replaced by todays goals and desires,
which are masquerading as tired souls trying to find solice,
stuck in "the Great American Dream Sham"
and now saying all there is to say,
Hail, Hail to me
and all who are free,
all who go their own way
and all who see though it !
Poem | |
lady of the night
performs tricks in an alley....
father taught her well
Poem | |
Set upon the new world stage within the burning fires of hell. Silently posed factions of the elite, suppress the true inherit of Mother Earth. The meek children bending over for millennium, taken spankings of bare bottoms, pelted slavery.
Upon entry to rule, the open stage of smoked mirrors began to reflect back upon the podium of lies. Taught by scholars from university books of political science. Fearful of leadership matching mirrored images, of false pretense, babbling rhetoric. The stirring masses of discontented, individualistic, thought of as dead - enders, trouble makers, and rebel rousers, rallied aimlessly.
With super hero, Captain Do Gooder, bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street. Weary lost hope combatants mustered courage, and accepted destiny. To this point, someone shouted against the wind of change. Felt by all who sensed the importance.
"To death do us part of the purpose to which we, the united, stand for justice".
The chant began, as Captain Do Gooder was dragged away, and cuffed, once bleeding helpless on the floor of Wall Street.
Damn the torpedoes. Damn the torpedoes.
Captain Do Gooder, fallen, bruised ego matching skinned knees, lays helpless. Who will save them now.
Second glances from high rise penthouses. Serving champagne and caviar. Brought iron clenched hands once hidden, to draw the stage curtain down.
With Captain Do Gooder nowhere to be found. The voice that came from pain of pupil. Born within broken dreams of promised lands. Realized nothing was coming cheap on this occupation.
The dusty streets found Captain Do Gooder aimlessly stepping against the winds of change, down Wall Street. The well-intentioned, arrested and broken spirited, lost hope of recycling any salvage rights taken from them by Metro.
Was this the end of the well thought out, pushed down occupation.
Was this the beginning, of the underground faction. Where was senior generation X hiding. Only Captain Do Gooder and the well-intentioned, world stage occupiers, hold the key to that Pandora's box of hope.
The peoples across the oceans were already springing far ahead in their own, more brutal campaign. For they had no cushion on which they were raised to kneel against. Tyranny ran over them. A lesson yet not felt, or learnt, or taught, in the new world. No chance of city mayors issuing eviction notices. Bullets, tanks and bombs were of the order. Brought down the line, traced back to the ones our United Nations to this day, refuse to acknowledge.
While leaders there home internet shop, and pump out the lies. Everyone dies.
In the heart of the continent of center, where unto which as mankind sprang forth, for its first and ever conquest.
The lights kept dim, to obscure the violent cleansing. A facade to disguise once moreover, the brutal tyranny for which the greed of the elite, control the dimmer switch. Diamonds and oil fuel the fire of war and oppression, on this stage of greed and guilt. Too far away, and too many distractions upon center stage for one to see or care. Thought and looked upon by most as racially motivated. The origins of all mankind, to be left, far too far, behind. The true forsaken people. Why is man unkind.
So..........will Captain Do Gooder raise the bar to which drinks for the house, and all around, will quench the thirst felt by ninety nine percent of the people............mother knows best.
Yet, still, self-inflicted roadblocks of appointed destiny, drop kicked long days past. Faint light shining far ahead, within the tunnel of hell, brought up to land. Firm above the depths to which it sprang. The truth of world order.
Wait......what do we see......do our closed eyes deceive our cries........................................
We see Captain Do Gooder catching second wind.
She breathes deep now and all can hear her war cry, no longer whimpering softly. As in past tense situations, given way to dazed and confused wall street *****es.
She builds momentum, as our brothers and sisters lay dying and bleeding. On the streets of some not so distant for telling, of what's to be, will never not be coming full steam ahead and plowing through the hidden agenda. One step beyond the line drawn in the sand of time, we thought would never be crossed. Give way thoughtless future tellers, and takers. Still holding firm with paper cuts, deep into the hands who printed and prepared such slave papers, kept by the elite bankers.
Captain Do Gooder returns renewed and refreshed. Our true Mother.
Captain Do Gooder feels strong, as bruised knees and scraped hands heal.
Brush of destiny sweepstakes, allots winnings of earth shaking, volcano erupting, tsunami tidal waves, with bonus draws of worldwide chaos. Future draws are to be held with worldwide winners. Grand prize, dead oceans rising.
The next generation have no fear digest writes the next chapter.
Hold the press down firmly wall street backbiting backbenchers. Drawn into the crossfire, on her mark, place the x on the next general who dares not fall into civil disobedience.
Captain Do Gooder has grown teeth, and she is biting down hard against the line to pipe riches, spoiled from her lands. Stolen from the first pilgrimage, fifteen thousand years old, lost empire.
How dare you steal from, and pollute the minds of her children. Yet old enough to drink and drug and die in war. How dare all of us.
Meanwhile back at the ranch. Captain Do Gooder hugs tight that tree of life, to which sprang all this elbow rubbing and diversion. Wall street huddles in her corner, painted red to match the lengths to which an end will surely bring to it.
Painted red for all to see.
The end to friendly letter writing, give peace a chance, make love not war, generation taking a bow, and snow birding it, to false sense of security land. Like the ostrich with its head in the sand.
Poem | |
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?
Or cyber you?
Or cyber brief?
Who is the real identity thief?
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.
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.
Poem | |
-Dr President Lady, please launch the nuclear war button-
I'm packing up my girdle; I'm heading up state
Where society thinks only men should run for president
Chill with Bill, on the side show Hill
Subsequently, he got tripped up with his hand in the biscuit jar
This poem is not about me... It's not about, Hilary
I'm here to cheer and throw off an early vote voluntarily
I'm numbering my days with the aces
Until the 2016 U.S. Presidential election
Only in a woman, you’ll find confidence and determination,
Someplace out there is our leading lady in disguise
A woman who sits down and pee's with pride
A woman Like Hilary, whose place was denied in the sun
I will vote for a woman who is not afraid to lead,
Grab up her crotch, and fight for all the right reasons
Repaint the town white and her fingernails red
Blue lipstick in the breeze, a tommy gun in her possession
A million dollar diamond ring,
A mink from all cultures of the globe
Sing hallelujah, Amen Praise the Lord!
Pink ribbons of freedom,
China can test all her might,
It's time to feel the empowerment of a woman's delight
There she’ll be’, sit down and enjoy,
When it’s time to hear her voice,
The bullet will miss her beautiful mind,
She'll Raid the Democratic Nomination moment of the blind
Her ego on the side; when it's time to reason with society
Feel the shattered glass feeling when sharks attack whitey
Cop Out the Republican Bully
Black Ops the Democratic Liar
For women can reach, preach, and teach,
Nursing a world, collaborating with every mind
A barrier to be breached, a blessed moment to come,
If you require a true hit, vote for a woman in the Oval Office
Who said Mrs. Wonderbra can’t launch the nuclear war button
Poem | |
There once was a man from Niagara
whose wiener's so long it would stab ya'
but when it got little
his pills became skittles
until he O.D.'d on Viagra
© ~JSLambert 2011*****A classic "stiff" competitor, standing "firm" amongst other "members" in the "thick" of the competition:) hope everyone gets "a rise" out of it!
Poem | |
Authored by Chuck Keys
It had no color,
Lacking shape, size and dimension.
It wasn't moving or breathing.
There was neither aroma nor taste, not here or there.
Touching was useless because it wasn't physical.
It was indistinct and limitless.
Multi-sensually and multi-psychologically
It wasn't here or there and it was.
With no distinction,
It looked like everything else,
Or it could not have looked like everything else.
It never made me feel good nor bad,
Nor happy nor sad
Nor quite nor trite.
In our world of joy and destroy, we sort and distort,
Looking more on the surface and less on the inside,
Ready to judge and be judged from outside in.
The "oneness" of mankind stretches beyond definitions and limits,
From outside to inside and from inside to outside.
We are one distinct and alike world of "oneness."
Differences exist for differences,
Therefore, differences don't exist.
Only "oneness" exists.
This poem is dedicated to Dr. Clayborne Carson and The Gandhi-King Community,
For Global Peace with Social Justice in a Sustainable Environment.
Poem | |
Anarchy and misery whispered
so softly only she could hear them.
Throwing crab apples drew attention
like running feral between cars,
like remapping streets which never gave
adequate directions or a single landmark
to show her the way home. Mother loved
the shell her baby bird had long ago broken,
a mourning dove cooing for soft pieces,
each scattered peep. Breath, the only thing
that was hers. Oh, the relief to snatch back
a bored sigh, lock it in, deny escape.
A-gore-rhythms and Form-you-la’s, school’s
strangle hold methodology of mind control.
Skip to my Lou. Skip class. Skip through
rush hour traffic. Still, no one understands.
No one speaks the language of Ash(ley).
Purge-atory is no fantasy.
Every day, the same losses:
possibility, sensitivity, civility. Hey guards,
listen to all the things she'll never say.
Words, what are they but manufactured
strings of disappointment that she chokes on?
The entire world babbles platitudes
and lawyers’ lies and vulgar chastisements.
Why speak, why waste a single breath?
They fling their crap, so she returns
the favor, knowing they will not
translate her message. They use verbs
like pepper spray and cavity search and
solitary confinement. She is nineteen,
but the numbers don’t add up, redo
the equation. Just don’t ask questions
or try to hurt yourself. Just?
Again, she feels the noose
close her throat, smiles at her secret
antidote, the open doors of unconsciousness.
A caress, this burn against the neck,
again and again, saved and saved
and saved, as though they’d noticed
the flame’s gone, as though someone cared
she’d become soot, ash, ashes.
Ashley? Ashley to ashes to ash
to dust, just dust. Just? Just. Death.
About this Poem
Ashley Smith was a troubled teen who would run into traffic, scream at people, cut classes.At 15 year, she was incarcerated for throwing crabapples at a mail man, this led to behavior which kept her in prison. She defied the system, threw feces at guards, refused to comply and strangled herself many times a day. Ashley was restrained in a chair for as long as 8 hours, forced to sleep on mattress-less bed frame, pepper sprayed, tazered and kept mostly in segregation. She would bang her head against the floor until she bled, told a phychologist she felt suicide was her only hope. She was moved 17 times between 8 facilities in only 9 months. On October 17, 2007, Ashley, aged 19, hung herself in her cell as guards merely watched, having been ordered to only intervene once she STOPPED breathing. Her death was filmed. There is currently an inquest into Ashley’s treatment and suicide. For more information-
May change come.
May change come, now.
Poem | |
The traveler reeked of weariness,
His companion was Fatigue
Wear upon his clothes suggest
He'd come a million league.
Gaunt were eyes deep set and brown
Above his cheekbones high
His being was pure somnolence
And I heard his silent cry.
Hard roads had been his travel
The pains chiseled on his face
In lines of furrows on his brow
Around I saw no motion there, then ...
His head began to rise
Finally he looked at me ...
Suffering in his eyes.
So quietly I attended
And with a heavy heart
I wanted so to speak to him ...
But knew not how to start
Within his labored breathing
He then began to speak
His words, when finally spoken
Were truthful and unique
His lips worked to form the words -
Then said; "My name is: Common Man,
I'm a father; I've worked hard;
' always done the best I can.
"The road's become uphill and steep with
Burdens I can't propel
I've tried to move on forward -
But, I stumbled here - and fell.
"There are others on me
Who so do depend
I must keep moving forward,
This mustn't be my end.
"Now I must reach out to you
'Cause before I've never failed
I'm turning now to you
'Fore on hardships I'm impaled".
A calloused hand then extended
Toward my outstretched hand
And I want to heed the call
For this Common Man.
But, Greed and Avarice have won
And assistance can't be lent -
Wall Street, you see, owns me now:
I'm Your Government.
Poem | |
Poem | |
It jumps not to the thought of riches or the prospect of gold
For common treasures are not what it seeks
But rather it responds to that probable possibility
That it may have touched the depths of someone else's soul
It hearkens not to sparkling gems or lusts after a lifetime of wealth
For inside jewels lies the hearts of thieves
But rather it stirs at giving a word someone needs
For inspiration to even the smallest person is a diamond in itself
It doesn't ache for dollar bills or lurch at the sight of green
For nowadays money comes in many different forms
But rather it longs to patch up another heart that may have been torn
And once again to give that person's life meaning
It is a place where the world dare not or otherwise cannot go
A safe haven for valuables other than currency
A hidden trail where treasure means finding creativity
A path that only the hearts of poets know
Poem | |
God is always love
Forever seek the kingdom;
Praise the creator
Keep giving what you can give
Please endure until the end
Protecting the meek ones earth
Watching over us
Helping us to cope with life
Comforted with hope and trust
When you find rhythm
You find your hearts inner core
Celebrate the times
Make them better than before
Reminisce and dance all night
Poem | |
Sometimes I am happy, sometimes I am sad.
Sometime I sing, sometimes I stammer
Sometimes I dance on the music of my soul, Sometimes I dance on the fingers of
one single person
Sometimes I expect so much from others; sometime I myself can’t meet my own
Sometime I make fun of others and feel bad later, sometimes life makes fun of me
and I smile
Sometime I win and sometimes I lose, sometimes I don’t even understand whether I
won or lost.
Sometimes I laugh as if whole world is with me,
Sometimes I cry as if I am alone wandering in a strange land
Sometimes I give up so easily
Sometimes I work so hard that no one can stop me to achieve what I want
Sometimes I am dynamic person, who wants to change the world,
And sometimes I am a kid who expects anyone to embrace him tightly.
Sometimes I feel happy about the achievement of my enemy
Sometime I feel dejected with my own success.
Sometimes I help others and show them the right path
Sometimes I feel totally helpless and don’t know where to go
Sometimes I ask god to please give my past back
Sometimes I pray to show me the way forward
Life is composed of SOMETIMES and I just flow with that.
U admit or not but you are also sailing on the same boat.
So join me and enjoy it EVERYTIME as SOMETIMES life is very short!
Poem | |
with a kiss
he tasted the salt
of her tears -
guilt washed over him
at feeling spring in his veins
This was the wrong place and moment
to have such strong lust and longing.
in his periphery,
her oniisan's sen-nin-bari
hung like a limp eel from her pocket
He was filled with the shame of it all.
To hell with this sacred, imperial war.
Two years too young to serve in the munitions factories,
many years too young to join in the fray,
he spent his time
amongst women, old men,
and the dreaded kempeitai.
His thoughts felt as those of a hikokumin.
He loved his ojiichan and obaachan,
who filled in for the roles of okasan,
and an otosan whom he hadn't heard from,
since the infantryman had stormed Rangoon, four months prior.
But spending so much time around mainly women and elderly folk
can become quite depressing for a man-boy.
Juzo and Aki slipped past a crowd of women
pushing against a rations cart,
clawing pathetically for scraps of rice, powdered eggs and salted fish.
This is what Nippon had been reduced to.
The pit in his stomach widened at the thought of dishes
he used to take for granted.
What he would do for some sukiyaki, mochi,
or even a slice of kasutera.
Walking through the streets hand-in-hand,
he felt the obake of shopkeepers
tending store behind boarded-up windows.
The entire city was brimming with negative thoughts,
probably partly due to the banning of the Joya-no-Kane -
what could purge the ill thoughts, now?
It felt like a pressure cooker of indecency,
steaming over into the gutters,
until even the gutters flooded,
spilling filth into the most private corners of kitchens and bedrooms.
Late at night,
when the blessing of sleep crept in,
he dreamt of food,
and of Aki finally breaching his shyness,
by taking the lead....
*Glossary(in order of appearance)
oniisan - brother
sen-nin-bari - stitched, woven cloth belt used as a talisman of protection by soldiers
kempeitai - military police
hikokumin - traitor
ojiichan - grandfather
obaachan - grandmother
okasan - mother
otosan - father
sukiyaki - sweet rice wine, cabbage, noodles, carrots, tender chicken
mochi - sticky rice with red bean in centre
kasutera - sponge cake
obake - ghosts
Joya-no-Kane - in Buddhist temples, gongs are hit 108 times with a log,
to help purge 108 indecent thoughts.
February 28th, 2012
Poem | |
Don't hate her because she's beautiful
Or envy that she's hot
She is all about appearances
It consumes her every thought
Try to look a little closer
Past the makeup and the hair
Beauty has little value
If a person doesn't care
Looks are her priorities
She doesn't work on what's inside
People tell her she's beautiful
She gorges on her pride
She's an emotional anorexic
Soul food she refuses to eat
Her behavior reinforced
When people fall at her feet
She craves the admiration
The attention she receives
Pretty is her curse
In the end it's her disease
She becomes a caricature
Her illusion to maintain
Fighting the mirror and time
Over and over again
I appreciate a beautiful woman but the Beauty has to emanate from a much deeper place for me to truly appreciate it. The most beutiful women I have met have become more beautiful with each word they have spoken. We need to stop emphasizing the physical when we raise our children, we will then raise up a generation of truly beautiful people.
Poem | |
Abuses hurled and Alcohol gurgled,
In the vortex of confusion
And blurred vision.
Intoxicated pleasure from surreal leisure.
Fooled senses and numbed conscience.
Wiped existence of love and kindness cuffed.
Lashed at the one he once loved.
Cringed and clung to her faint faith.
She and her cursed fate.
Exploding paroxysm of hate.
Her whipped ivory skin and bleeding lips,
Eyes with teary tinge,
Has the harvest moon singed.
Stillness of the night, pierced
By memories of bitterness-sodden years.
"Hurt me not", she trembled with fear,
"let me live for my girl, dear".
The cries colored skies crimson.
Just one reason--Her little girl.
As her daughter stared
With flaming locks and eyes that flared.
By Angom Amy (15)
Poem | |
New Future Of The
Cable cost are up
You turned to the
internet and so have
My Youtube channel
is the way to go
Now I can even make
I group the videos
to make a show
To bring you the
best of where I go
For kids the mower
and stove videos
I also have vehicles
and some scarecrows
Kids can watch from
morn til night
with lots of things
for a kids delight
Light houses, ship
building, and horses
Antique barn yards
and tractor pulls
just for you
and crafty wood
has all the quirks
The historical homes
make a great tour
Contest and oxen
pulls are never a
Animal friends, I
I have horses, dogs,
cows and sheep too
Plenty of petting
pens and milking for
And a simple click
is all you have to
A lot of shows with
a mix for all
derby or a stunt so
So if you dropped
the cable and you
have a need
I have three
channels for you to
By: Doris Anne
Poem | |
Feeling like a lodger
In my own home
Thankful for my music
And my new found roam
Families and communities
They are just so hard to find
But in April 2009
I found the most precious kind
I found the name amusing
So the button i clicked on to see
The layout was very inviting
Like an open door should be
For in a matter of minutes
On first uploading a poem
This Highlander was content
He had found a welcome home
So many lovely writers
Poets who share their bless
No longer this Scotsman is
The Man in the Wilderness