Long poem by
James Clark | Details |
It was a dry, dusty day when I saw the wheelbarrow, with long handles made of dark wood.
The wheel is struggling as it carries its burden, but it manages the job that it should. The man pushing appears to be crying, his eyes all puffy and red. It’s time to move on, but I wait, I wait for him to reach me instead. The wheelbarrow has a dark green cover, such a sickly, metallic sweet smell underneath, such a heavy lump in my throat, “don’t lift the cover!” but regardless, I pull back it back to see.
The first thing to strike me, such a tiny hand, tiny fingers all bent into a fist, and an inch below there in my big gloved hand, the smallest most delicate wrist. Her face is held together by bright orange thread, her eyes are searching the stars. Her crown should still be there, on that beautiful head, where she lays, crumpled up inside her Dads cart. I put back the cover, swallow hard and just stand there, my head, Jesus Christ I can’t think, my pounding heart tearing itself apart inside my trained body, at this beautiful little angel in pink.
Her father, his eyes screaming toward me sobs gently, silent rage and yet deafening shock. Why can’t I bring myself to look into this man’s eyes, oh Lord, grant me some breath that I may talk. To say sorry, to ask why, to just speak in his tongue, to show him that I really care. I realise that I could never find words, I’ve no such tragedy to compare.
I walked away from the blue wheelbarrow, thinking that I could leave it behind. But every night as my daughter hugged me, that wheelbarrow crashed into my mind. Whenever she cried my stomach went tight, when she laughed those dark clouds disappeared, whenever she told me she loved me, I knew that I had nothing to fear, but yet so much. The wheelbarrow changed me forever, drank me to illness, and brought my whole life to the edge. I couldn’t switch off from that sweet smell, and I couldn’t explain that to friends.
I will never forget, such a small wrist in my hand, such beautiful soft lips kissing the sky. Such a pretty pink little dress, though stained red with blood, those clear and lifeless brown eyes. I wish that I had asked for her name, what to call that three year old victim of war, so small and so beautiful with those innocent eyes, my body aches that I can’t wish so any more.
If I could explain to people, about my demons, in one image to make them understand. I’d draw that blue wheelbarrow with the green cover on top, and that sweet delicate wrist in my hand. Two days after the wheelbarrow I became a Father and to my comfort, for the rest of my life I will know. No matter how often the wheelbarrow returns, I have my daughter, here for me to hold.
Long poem by
Leonora Galinta | Details |
It’s already been three years now since you passed away,
Yet, those mem’ries of you are alive, in my heart you’ll forever stay;
Every time I think of you, I smile with pain,
And wish that I can see and hug you once again.
My childhood years with you were so much fun,
I can’t recall any moment when you hit me with your hand;
You always took care of me with so much love,
‘Til I dreamt of Jesus on his bike, showing Himself like you-a loving Dad.
You were a very loving father who sacrificed everything,
When mom was away for work, you crossed rivers if I get sick;
You’d played the biggest role in my grade schooling,
You’d always fetched and brought me to school through biking.
I remember when you asked my teacher’s permission,
I was sick and I couldn’t attend my Kindergarten Graduation;
My teacher didn’t agree for I’ll be given an honor,
Wrapped in blanket, you brought me up on stage to pin my ribbon.
From my secondary to college life,
You gave your financial, moral and spiritual support and guide;
You’d honed your house-painting skills and you became well- known,
A big help for mom and your three children’s education.
December 2010 to January, 2011 was the happiest moment for me,
You and mom visited me in a place so far away,
A happy reunion of only four (with your sis/my aunt) but I was so happy
We enjoyed your natal day… I never thought that was your last, Daddy.
You went back home and suddenly you got sick,
No matter how everyone climbed a mountain, you’d a remote recovery;
Despite the pain of losing you as my eyes blurred with tears,
I finally let you go to God, in Him you’ll find the most soothing relief.
Today is your death anniversary and I’m writing my poetry,
To express how much you are missed my ever dearest daddy;
I offer you flowers and candles on the altar where I’ve placed your photo,
Through my prayer to God, I’ll send my loving messages to you.
Dear God, please tell my dad that I dearly love and miss him so much,
Hug him for me and through the breeze, please send me his loving touch;
Among the most beautiful flowers in heaven, please pick one for me,
Give it to him- a symbol of my great love and forever he’s my best daddy.
Feb. 27, 2014 5.20pm
A poem requested by my relatives for my dad’s Third Year Death Anniversary on this March/14. He was 64 when he died. It was sent back home through mail and will be read by my 11-yr. old niece on his memorial service day at church.
>>Pls. click about this picture. TYSM
Long poem by
Scribbler Of Verses | Details |
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Solomon Mahlangu: My Blood will Nourish the Tree that will Bear the Fruits of Freedom:
Solomon Mahlangu was trained as an MK soldier with a view to later rejoining the struggle in the country.
He left South Africa after the Soweto Uprising of 1976 when he was 19 years old, and was later chosen to be part of an elite force to return to South Africa to carry out a mission commemorating the June 16th 1976 Soweto student uprising.
After entering South Africa through Swaziland and meeting his fellow comrades in Duduza, on the East Rand (east of Johannesburg), they were accosted by the police in Goch Street in Johannesburg.
In the ensuing gun battle two civilians were killed and two were injured, and Mahlangu and Motloung were captured while acting as decoys so that the other comrade could go and report to the MK leadership.
Motloung was brutally assaulted by the police to a point that he suffered brain damage and was unfit to stand trial, resulting in Mahlangu facing trial alone.
He was charged with two counts of murder and several charges under the Terrorism Act, to which he pleaded not guilty.
Though the judge accepted that Motloung was responsible for the killings, common purpose was argued and Mahlangu was found guilty on two counts of murder and other charges under the Terrorism Act.
On 15 June 1978 Solomon Mahlangu was refused leave to appeal his sentence by the Rand Supreme Court, and on 24 July 1978 he was refused again in the Bloemfontein Appeal Court.
Although various governments, the United Nations, International Organizations, groups and prominent individuals attempted to intercede on his behalf, Mahlangu awaited his execution in Pretoria Central Prison, and was hanged on 6 April 1979.
His hanging provoked international protest and condemnation of South Africa and Apartheid.
In fear of crowd reaction at the funeral the police decided to bury Mahlangu in Atteridgeville in Pretoria.
On 6 April 1993 he was re-interred at the Mamelodi Cemetery, where a plaque states his last words:
‘My blood will nourish the tree that will bear the fruits of freedom.
Tell my people that I love them.
They must continue the fight.’
Mahlangu died for a cause!
The Struggle Continues…
(special thanks to a friend who shared this tribute to Solomon Mahlangu)
Long poem by
Timothy Hicks | Details |
I write this for you far too late it seems.
That the day would come, the sun would set on you
was always just a bad dream, I'd conjure in my head,
late at night while laying haphazardly in my bed.
Of course I found it to be true
and it left me speechless through and through.
You were a friend to me and a Man of God.
You were tired of standing still, so you got off your log.
And when you announced you were joining the army
I was indifferent. I didn't beam with pride, nor preach against it.
I was a pesky mouse with a million things to say, but stayed quiet.
Just what in the world could I do
that would ever compare to the Greatest Sacrifice?
We can't even sit down and talk about it
that's what they mean by the Ultimate Price.
Just how in the world do I honor thee
when I'm convinced so thoroughly
America was in the wrong?
I wish at times I could be like a sheep
and tag along.
Hold my head up high
and see the good ole red, white and blue
waving majestically in the sky.
But I can't just ignore what my heart is telling me.
It's not about taking the day-off and having a barbecue.
It's not about kicking up your feet, basking in the heat.
I respect that full-heartedly.
But with the range of emotions I'm feeling currently
I can't even shed a tear,
it just wouldn't do these feelings justice.
For it is without shame and without prejudice
I mourn the loss of anyone,
not just someone close to me.
I can't put a price tag on lives,
it's just not how I see things.
It's a lie what they tell you, digging doesn't
always get you gold, just grimier dirt.
When someone goes we all point fingers,
but in the end it's only hurt that we feel.
It's a long grieving process, but in explicable ways
some of us just won't ever heal.
Oh how I wish to grab Uncle Sam's shoulders,
screaming, "Wake UP!
We've played your game, but enough is enough!
In the name of God, stop this charade!
How dare you turn a blind eye to so much blood..."
But alas, now is not the time for that - today I'm just sad
when I think of all the life you could have had.
All I know is that on May 4th, 2013 war took her course
and swallowed up one of this world's last great remaining stars.
It's a comfort to me, however minuscule,
that I see your smile on the faces of many,
so you can't be all that far.
Long poem by
Vicki Acquah | Details |
In her lofty ways she was at all times
the best example of
the stars out-shining the moon.
Her ways of doing things always
correct and proper
she was a student of the Queen.
Place setting and
the china on the table all had to
be according to the law.
And no PHD could outwit her with
her twelfth-grade education.
She though dignified and learned
always quoted un-biblical quotes
from other bibles.
"Cleanliness is next to Godliness ".
I would say well didn't
God make dirt too!?
Don't be asinine she would say-
Seemed as if the emphasis
would be on the "ass"
I would laugh... and when
I was not looking
she would laugh too.
Auntie could hardly
pass up a good humorous
exchange no matter how
ostentatious or outrageous.
Her well groomed and well
was not just for Sundays.
She served her God faithfully
in words and in deeds everyday.
I have never known her
to beg or borrow.
Never seen her complain as
"Arthur" took his toll on her knees.
She was faithful to the end
and though she had no
children of her own,
she nurtured all of the
children whom were
blessed enough to be
corrected by her or to
eat a slice of her lemon
Anytime I think of her
I remember the sweetest
music coming from
the piano that displayed
her mood with music-
Her piano voiced her
thoughts in pitch and
range; as she became
one with the keys and chords.
There was no room for "I can't"--
and no excuse not trying.
She finally gave up on me
playing the piano -
That ruler had taken
it's toll on my knuckles
and even if you failed at any
attempt to do things as right
as she wanted :
After a hardy reprimanding/
Auntie was sure to have my favorite
food and clean bed waiting for me.
I loved her so much that
every now and then
I have to write about this amazing
Sister to my mother.
Rosella Faye Graham Derrickson Myers ...
And yes she would say her whole ''title"
if you were to ask her, her name.
Her spirit lives on...
In all the lives that she has touched.
Long poem by
John Posey | Details |
Sammy Taylor was a good kid, as everyone could see
He was destined for greatness unknown to you and me.
From the hills of West Virginia, a place called Whittlers’ Bend.
He left one day in ’66 never to return again.
Folks all remember Sammy for the goodness in his soul.
A smile and sparkle in his eyes glittered just like gold.
Sammy considered all the people as family to him.
When he was called to fight for peace in a place called simply, 'Nam'.
He grew up a hunter and loved his fishin’ too
So things the outdoors offered Sammy weren’t all that new.
‘Nam' was not the West Virginia Mountains that he knew.
The morning he woke up on a hill called 14 Blue.
Charlie had been active there just the day before
And signs that he was very close could not be ignored.
While all remained quiet throughout that August day
Little did anybody know that night would bring hell to pay.
It was just about a quarter to three, and all was strangely quiet,
When the chatter of an M16 broke the silence of the night.
There was a pop and then a flare gave vision to the night….
A voice was heard to say, “Charlie’s on his way and he’s coming here to fight.”
Now, Sammy had already seen his share of hell on earth
And Charlie’s demons gave him one more chance to prove his worth.
A dedicated VC soldier was always an awesome foe
But nothing will surpass the courage Sammy would soon show.
Sammy found himself in front of an insane VC charge
He barely had the time to yell, “They’re comin’, Look Out, Sarge!”
A VC grenade proved to be his last courageous test
When a West Virginia mountain boy covered it with his chest.
Now, there’s a house in Whittlers’ Bend with a medal on a wall.
But the plaque hanging there beside it cannot tell it all---
How Sammy Taylor went outside, one morning, just to play,
Then, some years later, gave his all, in a place so far away.
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
Written By John Posey
Long poem by
Jecon B. Nadela | Details |
Dedicated to Lt. Gen. George S. Patton, Jr. (November 11, 1885 – December 21, 1945)
I'd fought a hundred battles
through the ages past and new
I'd been a lowly foot soldier
But at times commanded too.
I was a witness of Arab mothers
Fleeing cities under-siege ;
A new age liberator,
The commander of the third.
I had served with Ceasar's legion;
The Carthaginians; and the Greeks.
When Arthur was in his Kingship,
I was a captain of the knights
A horseman tough and skillful
Of medieval cavalier;
But ages had transformed me
to dash with iron wheels
The only time I meet MacArthur
Was in the salient of St. Mehiel
We both stood erect, calm, and unmindful
To the guns and bursting shell.
Oh well take a look at Monty
Too slow for his advance
He didn't expect me to take Palermo
or Mesina to my plan
I was reproved of my harshness,
They knew not that I was somber too
I cared not of my language
As long as my point would get through
I'd mixed my words with profanities
That my orders surely stick
My men would always remember every word
While they're in the battle field
Oh my, I hate those yellow bastards
They have no place on this earth
I sent them to the frontlines
That no more they would breed
Those swivel chair commanders
Discounted my two days time
But brave soldier deserved to be rescued
Before his dog tag stops to chime.
So my men made it to Dunkirk
To the delight of McAuliffe
"Surrender!" yelled the Nazis
but "nutz" was all he said.
I was cut off of supplies and fuel
For Market Garden's sake
But after pissing the flowing River
I held the Fuhrer's nest
So soon another war was ended
Mine enemies had lost
The iron carver claimed the glory
And relieved me from my post.
Long poem by
Cheryl Chandler | Details |
From the past days of old.
At Seventh Street & Florence Avenue.
Vehicles in pristine finished.
Bragging Rights Mint Condition.
Proudly rolled by in a yearly tribute.
Very close behind did the present.
Spanking brand new, Virgilina's, VA.
Town's first responders debut their life-
saving vehicles of rescue.
Summer Fest proudly displayed.
Awesomely colored painted fine cars.
Including trucks and plowing tractors.
The drivers and passengers.
Cheerfully waived tossing smiles and candy.
I watched so many of the children laughing.
Enjoying themselves while playfully.
Scrambling to grab all and as many.
Of the tossed free candies.
So very comforting it was to see.
Neighbors, visitors, friends and family.
Standing side by side
In such a loving comradely.
History and our future.
Embracing one another.
In supreme harmony.
Refreshing the supportive celebration.
Veterans from old world wars of our past.
Keeping close in step were our gallant;
soldiers of wars in our present time.
Today's events were also in celebration.
Of the soldiers whom honorably.
Transitioned to a much peaceful home.
This was a very lovely quick get away.
Cotton candy, home made ice cream.
Scenie's Old-fashioned Peanut Brittle.
Freshly squeezed lemonade.
How fortunate to meet Ms Marion Woods.
Author of Uncle Jerdon's Farm Children' Book.
Thanks to my cousin Natarsha.
I am experiencing a very lovely.
Memorial Weekend Holiday.
My Uncle Joe Lassiter our beloved Veteran.
His daughter and my cousin Andrea Miller.
Stood in the longest line waiting patiently.
For what I learned was the town's best.
It's evening now I sit here as one.
Within this blissful time in nature.
Pleasantly at peace.
Relaxed taking in the beauty.
Of this picturesque piece of land.
On on this lovely day.
I joyfully have a writing instrument.
Very close at hand.
Long poem by
Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Details |
"Your first poem was an
excellent poem....you are
skat on my first poem.
"Wonderful and deep
poem....you are welcome
to poetry soup..." That
was Poet Destroyer.
"Wow you have touched
my heart in a special way
with your poem.....your
new friend Leonora
Galinta" said Galinta.
"Well penned" said
kithinji and so many
Hearty words from these
unique poets spurred me
to write better poems.
Which they appreciate.
Poetry soup is safe haven
where feelings and
emotions are expressed
in tangible forms.
An educational enclave
where different forms of
exchanged like two
hands washing eachother.
Am most humbled to
meet these dazzling
gems radiating warmth
like the sun-a privilege it
is connect to parts of the
I believe we all will meet
someday,not in the after
Leonora Galinta is an
angel to meet,whom I
admire amongst others.
Love to set my eyes on
her delicate and graceful
nature. See her graceful
carriage, feel her gentle
hands and smiles as she
exudes sweetness. I pray
hand of time will
backwards when that
day appears as we walk
in the woods leading to
silent deep blue sea with
whispering...... A prolific
writer as well.
PD will I meet
amiable nature,full of
grace and charm. A
Skat is lovely with her
immeasurable words of
Kithinji will I love to
behold,to learn from him.
Have drink with Robin,
Alian, shake akinyemi,
stroll with Joe, hv a hike
Sibanda, dine with Ralph
Saying hi and hugs to
Meeting the soupers is
making a happy family.
Am gliding like the
eagle,soaring higher as
the day pass by.
you soupers are my
(Baron Of Ebullion)
Long poem by
Shanity Rain | Details |
When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child, chai .
I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .
Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?
It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .
The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.
It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing , cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .
There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love, and reunited with the ones they lost .
The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time .
You could not, but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see .
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet, of the Hostility .
I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish, chosen Religion.
There as I held her frail , old hand , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago . In 1945 , once in our distant, yet Frightening past .
We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
" Etta Babooshka Kofman "