Long poem by
Agatha Jetaime | Details |
As soon as I landed, Radju, I concluded that these people live like Gods –
Fairy tale like empty airports, queer roads and on them driving cars handsome studs.
One-piece glass in windows and Dutch ware toilets in a moderate home,
People living here are as happy, I said, as few in our world’s dome.
Their green parks here, Radju, are so vast,
And their houses, Radju, are solid-cast
But not a soul when sun rises sings
A mantra, kirtan or prayer in spring.
It seems they’re not lazy or idle, life in honey,
Radju, but they don’t make anything except for money.
Nothing except for money as if they eat it or it yields –
Only money stacks are advertised on advertisement shields.
Imagine, Radju, no dirt, no slums, but if there’s a long highway to exile
Then all along the road there would be shields with money and even raw meat piled.
Nothing except for money, Radju, as if they can wear it –
They hire people to raise their children. Just imagine it!
Nothing except for money, Radju, if they see a beggar or a cripple
They look as if the poor is not worthy of a man’s name and my back dimpled!
Nothing except for money, but not so that they can buy their wives
Expensive jewelry or embroidered sari – beautiful life.
Instead they put money in a bank and set example for neighbors,
Wear only grey and wife is to wear grey and only labor, labor.
Their women are well-groomed, among old there are no wobbly or lame, hmm
But none of their men sing for them
Nor do they play tablas for them.
Their kids don’t die of poor quality water, infection in rain season, black dust
But I never saw them showing God their gratitude, their admiration and trust!
Their elderly live all alone, when their souls leave body – well,
Often there’s no soul around wanting to say final farewell.
The funniest thing, Radju – they pity you and me, how’s that?
That we can hardly make ends meet to buy our dear children bread.
That we have never been to theater and sleep on mats in dirt –
Those who wish their loved ones death over the phone – they value concerts!
I lived five days among them, ran away on the sixth day in deception –
I bewared that I would finally and irreversibly lose perception.
My Sangita raised her hands up to the skies, Radju mate,
As soon as she saw me, she brought me hot roti and daal plate.
What happened to you, she said, you look scarier than any of Rakshasa, even paler than
A European, I even burst into tears, Radju, that I underwent such horror. Now – zen.
Long poem by
Joshua Torres | Details |
What is poetry, if not a form of artistry, looking for beauty, through the calamity?
Why do we waste rhymes and peoples time just for us to shine in the spotlight of our own iniquity?
We stand up here to rant to open ears hoping that out tears were not shed in vain.
Speaking of stolen dreams, evil things, times of struggle and strain.
Have we become nothing but moans and groans; whining, begging joy be shown,
Becoming the clowns of our towns speaking foolishly trying to sound profound?
Giving loud barks out of the dark hoping to spark a light for ourselves,
Encapsulated in a prison with no vision past our imaginary box and it's shelves.
Our pens bleed the the story of failure and glory but seems to always fall short of the truth.
It's been buried to deep for us to query, for the shovel of falsehood has thrown the dirt having the lie take root.
Growing, stealing and masquerading with masks of what was long forgotten in the elegant dialect of our rant.
Leaving no way to be freed, no revolution to lead, left with only one word to proceed, can't.
A poet could be and should be a constant escapee from the prison of catastrophe,
Emerging through the strife enjoying life, it's beauty and all its quirky abnormality.
Our lexicon is a gift to build on expressing the bond between our mind and reality,
Not only it's tragedy or gravity of pain, but, also the silent whisper, of the muted majority.
So let what we say be a ray of hope, not torment, for poetry is not for us,
It's to help rebuild, and shield our readers, so they have something to trust.
For a poet with no order is like a country with no borders, unstable and unable to grow,
Easily uprooted with happiness looted, left for no hope to grasp at or show.
Let us sharpen our tongues and strengthen our lungs, for all we have is our breath,
To influence the world giving imaginations a whirl with creative writes, not only of death.
For what we speak comes to life, whether it be of strife or delight, for our pens depict our destiny,
For what we say paves the way we react on the days of struggle and joy for eternity.
Remember each time your pen blots a line, that it is a crime to write only of despair,
For our readers deserve to read something undisturbed, for our words can impale like a spear.
Any person can write, but to be a delight, that is a thing only a poet can do.
So let's return to the past and our passion cast the enchanting words that we all once knew.
Long poem by
Mariam M. | Details |
Poem: Will You Travel With Me To Heaven?
When you wake up in the morning
From a dream you think is okay
You see your spouse and family
Get ready for another day
The dream you saw, the things you see
The bed on which you soundly sleep
Your kids all grown up, your husband
And old memories that you keep
Who do you think created them?
Were they created from nothing?
If there is no god who made these
All, then what's the point of living?
D'you think we were made from nothing
Then from nothing we live for fun
To eat and drink, to love and hate
Then when we die, what comes is none?
The eyes with which your body sees
Those sockets that keep your eyeballs
The mouth you use for food and speech
The way you answer random calls
The languages you use to speak
And another –your mother tongue-
The way you carry yourself, and
How you breathe through your heart and lungs
The muscles that stretch when you smile
Your friends who often make you laugh
The words you try to understand
And how you sign your name so fast
Your kids who once stayed in your womb
The months you carried them in you
Your feelings when you saw their first
Walk and when they smile back at you
The food you eat and cook each day
The rainfalls that fall from above
The earth you walk on each night and
Day, and the things you've learned to love
The blood that flows 'neath your skin each
Hour, the foods you eat, sweet and sour
The clouds you see above your head
The scent of various plants and flowers
The many colors of people
You see, and many sounds you hear
All things in this universe make
You think that a God must be near
A God who is not in this world
But because of Lordship –Above-
Above the skies and on His Throne
Above anything you can think of
A God who is the Most Powerful
A God who does not eat or sleep
A God who is Above all things
A God who does not sweep the streets
A God who sees us all the time
A God who knows our hidden thoughts
A God who hears us all the time
A God who gives us lots and lots
A God who made this universe
A God who is the King of all
A God who knows the good and bad
A God who causes rain to fall
A God who made all kinds of colors
A God who rotates day and night
A God who knows all languages
A God who gave the moon its light
A God who knows the past and present
A God who sees the future of all
A God who gave all kinds of sounds
A God who gave all forms –short and tall
Long poem by
Chris Boskovski | Details |
Dedicated to my darling Mystic Rose...
For my everlasting rose,
for my darling Mystic Rose,
Charished deep in my heart,
for generations to last lifetimes,
on this Beautiful gift,
we all call Mother Earth.
Oh now my dear
come now and do not fear,
I shall take you by your sweet and loving hand,
as we set out in a band,
of two lonely hearts
that both need to be loved.
At first when I came
to this desolate Wasteland;
I was a lonely heart
with poetry that was my art.
You were the first to come to me,
with a smile and a hug.
You read my work,
I won your heart
and you praised me,
looked at me in anew
and treated me diffrently than any other.
My darling Mystic,
Oh how you make me feel;
so grand, so new, so happy.
As I lay my head to rest
I reminisce on your loving words,
that spoke such truth to my soul.
As you praised me through my heights,
and weaped with me through my sorrow,
as I uplifted your soul with the arrangement of words
I wrote from deep down in my weak and weary soul;
You were there always to touch my heart
and cure me of sorrowed tears.
It is impossible to express my love for you,
but see me, to feel my love,
for you my darling Mystic
it tears me apart to not
see your face, to hear your voice,
only to read your loving words
comments on a poem
that was written on a page;
It tears me apart.
Oh, my sweet and everlasting rose,
Blooming in every season,
at every hour,
a beautiful poetess at her midst of an evening twilight
as the nightingales sing outside your window,
I come and show you love and compassion.
Let us go, you and I,
I take you by your hand
and we sail off,
two poets writing of beauty
both in ink upon a blank piece of paper.
To write of love,
My compassion for you
my beautiful rose,
my darlin Mystic.
We shall part seas,
bloom in gardens of beauty,
roses and violets grow tall
reminding us of our everlasting friendship.
Lilacs and tulups stray long away,
to show my love to a stranger,
but you are no stranger to me.
You are an everlasting rose,
which blooms evertime at the stroke of nine,
and there you stay,
growing in a large and beautiful garden,
that is located deep in my heart.
Now take me, my darling Mystic
and charish this beautiful write
Charish it at all times,
every hour of the days!
In honour of your beauty and inspiration
I am a fool in love,
intoxicated with your beauty at heart.
Long poem by
Dave Collins | Details |
I stopped to stool siphon sip on a cool blue
circumstance in the means between the in
times loath listening to complacent
poetic prostitutional practices of stir my friends
ego echoes doing the same f. u. c. k. e. d.
favor dance for me when I ego envy enter
exist your contra content littered with
manic moronic mentaloronic maladies
of entrance entrocities. Lining words
pentamhextamater, rich rhyme, cleaveage crotch
clearance, colic c.u.n. t. coffiure
frantic fascist frames, abounding with
wok out at me sillo sounds
composite of cruel crisp compound
cumulo capsules of I, me, mine
mousy miniscules in drop dreamy
lovelorn lostlust learned
limitations lauded longevity living
linguistic liquidlovelorn light
leaking lanterns, which bequeath
*****in broth biscuited breveties
lucid laminated with word wornwaste
catagorical crass. Leave wailwall
enough alone when yr tackless
trash talent is way less than spittle,
your poor prowess less than dodah duh, Po e tree?
So, my wordful children of BS, when writing yr so called pitypoetry,
devoid of dream dance diminutives coinciding correctly with wrenching wraps
of prostitutional ponder relentelessingly revealing a rapture
of vast vile emoelements of comprosotory
composites of fecalfroughtfrightfolly of fantasies in
poet emeritus of urineyourns a 3 way stretch non nobel poetlorietsupreme
goodfistingluckwiththatcrap;therefore u either play the game or
risk reside in the zombie aperature camera obsecura word death orbit; therefore
Assimilitate before u ass umulate,
Build before u bridge buldge
Concentrate before u cumulo capsulate
Decide before u dildo dick tate
Engulf before u evo enevelop
Fragment before u fracture fantasize
Grasp before u geno germinate
Hallucinate before u hasty hippocrate
Initialize before u initiate
Jackulate before u Jillulasm
Literate before u laud luminate
Mentor before u mirror menstruate
Nurtuate before u neuro negate
Obliviate before u oogle obligate
Postulate before u priest present
Question before u quotionent quest
Recreate before u radical resonnate
Saturate before u semen sacrlidge
Tintalate before u trick translate
Utilize before u usurp ugly
Victory before u vile vanquish
Want before u willful waste
X-turn right @ W follow the X signs
Yuletides before u yell yeildtides
Zeusotide before u zonk zerozilchotones.
Long poem by
Aiyah de Torres | Details |
I met them once I landed in a place,
they called it haven, a soiree place.
Where people are nice,kind and cool.
Some are young, some are....never mind.
They're awesome people!
I first met this blonde lady,thought she's only twenty.
She did refused, said she's almost a mother to me.
I beg to disagree,'cos she's more than just a mom.
She's a bestfriend, she's wonderwoman.
She lives in Norway,Anne Lise Andresen was her name.
There goes a new avatar,who came to visit on my land.
She's wearring sunglasses,but can't hide the beauty from behind.
Then I found out lately, she doesn't just own a pretty face.
She is the sexiest and hottest momsie,rockin' up poetry.
She's a real poet master,SkAT A.,that's her name!
One day I sat down and read some poetries,
So delightful,inspiring, and awesome pieces.
I got struck to what I've found.
A Filipina who's writing with charms,
Her poems are incredibly great,
She's Nette Onclaud, the goddess poet!
I came to land another page, thought at first that's a cage.
Of a tigress with full of angst and strength.
I must admit, though I was afraid, I admire all the pieces she had made.
She left the table and threw the soup,and think tha'ts the last time I'll see her poem.
But with revenge she went back home, and send me greetings that I treasured.
With friendly comment I came to know, this tigress is tame and a sweet person.
Who is she?...the everbody's love and favorite, Poet Destroyer!
As time goes by, and my journey went long.
I had to passed in different stations.
I came to know so many beautiful people,
So kind and thoughtful, their arts are treasures.
There came to visit my poem one day,
Though full of greiving,they cheered me so well.
They are Mary Jo ,Eileen, F.J. ,Vie and Shadow.
The women who are pride of this site.
The pretty ladies who always been there to lift you high.
Above all these awesome experience,
Is to know the people from my own motherland.
My country fellas, so sweet,cool and nice.
They are the crystal flowers glisten brightly like a star.
They are Leonora, Maria Paz, Nikko and Carole...
My day became brighter, you light the path I walk.
Everytime your greetings knock on my door.
Allow me to do the honor to thank you guys.
And let you all know how thankful I am.
My dream has came true, because of this site.
Long poem by
Agatha Jetaime | Details |
Let it be that - we are simply disconnected
And all of it that was before is now neglected.
Just as in an international call
And I'll stop knowing what you whisper all
Over her right ear,
Petting her mere
Hair. Listening to the cheerful imps
Of your disturbing thoughts. A glimpse.
And recognizing every rustle
Around you. A twitching muscle.
Here's the sound of keys jingling,
Here are her fingers mingling
With your fringe, here's the wind strangled in the curtains,
The load of memories it burdens...
Sms beep, the block is off,
The parquetry squeaks yet the steps are easy,
Flick of a lighter and that's it - the tone. How cheesy...
And I'll stay a bit in the telephone booth
Reciting poems of my youth.
Awaiting for the firing of invisible squadrons in my temples to cease.
Oh would I ever feel the ease?
Of simple being, I'm happy as old colonel Frehley
Who died with a reciever in his hand.
Let it be that as if it's five years past.
And we are all steady here at last.
We're not as booming with the decibels,
But we're worth a 1000 for a ticket.
There might as well be time for cricket.
We are working like real men,
Making money as easy as trimming a bush. We stem.
We're not giving our minds any downtime.
What's mine is mine.
And I am aware of what I am worth.
It doesn't matter that nobody is willing to pay the price.
We run in circles just like mice.
We meet and knock back three
Glasses of Chilean semi dry and you look at me.
And then you say "I am pround of you, Polozkova!"
But no - nothing breaks inside me.
That August we were still drinking outside
And you were wearing
My jacket - we are joking, singing and smoking...
Probably you never knew that from that night on you
Become the protagonist of my hysterics and mimes. All anew.
One day we'll recall this -
And wouldn't be able to believe it ourselves...
Let it be that my vim and naughtiness
Are back; My slouch and flabbiness
Are gone; And nothing's beating me inside
No pain within me would reside.
And there's no need to write
My poems. How can I ignite?
Let it be that I don't sob hoarsely with every chorus
Just like a dyed-haired singer with little morals.
How nice that you're sitting
In front of the screen and thinking
That you're reading
Of somebody else.
Long poem by
Jimmy Anderson | Details |
Lightning flashes across the chilly midnight sky.
A warrior rises from the ashes to be a Poetic Samurai.
Metaphorically his blazing Katanna blade is just a mere black pen.
His poetry is like an explosion from a grenade leaving poets in ruin!
He scribbles out names of poets he's slain, and ponders who is next.
The rain beats against the window pane, and he wonders of the last poetess he sexed.
He made passionate love to her mind, and did things no other man had done.
The pen was a sweet taste of sin when he ate her from behind just for fun!
After awhile with a smile he discarded her like a rag doll, and focused solely on her boyfriend.
The Samurai was determined to poetically kill this slime ball after he was done with his girl
for a weekend.
But the boyfriend was jealous and shaking with rage, and he challenged the Poetic Samurai.
Poetry Soup would be the main stage, for it was do-or-die, and this battle begin to intensify.
The Poetic Samurai dominated the poetesses boy toy by placing him in a casket and burying
This demonic poetic warrior was determined to destroy, and he wanted no one to survive!
The Samurai battled the poetess and her whole click, spreading terror like the swine flu!
The boyfriend got poetically sick, and the samurai beat their cheerleaders black and blue!
The poetess, her boyfriend and their soup friends were furious, because of the Samurai's
So the boyfriend got personal and serious, because the samurai ate the boyfriends green
eggs and ham!
The boyfriend could not stomach the samurai's poetic food, so he ran and pulled up the
Samurai's criminal background.
But the Samurai is a poetic warrior and he continued to smash the dude into the ground
leaving his girlfriend spellbound!
It is said the boyfriend is poetically dead, he eventually committed suicide!
The Samurai left a trail of bloodshed across the soup and worldwide.
It is said the poetess ran away, she could not take it anymore.
I guess being sliced and diced by poetic swordplay was hard to ignore!
So the Poetic Samurai begins to retire, but he keeps his pen ready for a challenger.
He patiently waits to wrap another poet in barbed wire and swing the Excaliber!!!
Long poem by
sashi prabhu | Details |
I have many times before,
Tried to walk away from this poetry of mine,
But as usual ended up in a state of deplore.
Alas, this life of abhor has grown into an addicted entwine.
My life as a poet is all cold sweat,
I guess is now my curse.
It is now trapped on a piece of paper like a laden fishing net,
My moments are trapped within its verse.
As I live my moments……`
My life is now but a dream,
And the dream is now my life.
I have no longer the need to scream,
these written words are a silent whisper akin a surgeon’s knife.
All my life I have had to be a fighter,
And my pen gave me my voice,
Now I know why I am a writer
who has won his fights without a noise.
My past is spiked and laced with mistakes,
I don’t have, any remorse or regret,
my mind and its temple have borne the bruises and aches,
Am smug about it and would like to relive it without being upset.
My devious past fuels my emotionally charged words and text,
And fires from within me the unchained rage,
Am never about it vexed or even perplexed,
As in this ink lies my sweat, blood & tears, stained & burnt but easy to gauge.
My verses are my memories of the bygone,
The paper on which I write on is my stage,
My tainted pen nib is my microphone,
And my life is perched on what was once a blank page.
For quite some time now this pen is my teacher,
And my mind controls these words I write,
These verses guide me out of darkness and make me richer,
And become the beacon, my guiding light.
I have spent so much time alone,
That I needed someone to say hi
My life was stuck in silence and blown,
I pick up this pen when feelings low have to glide by.
As I scribble my dreams,
The ink replaces my tears,
The verses consume my life with screams,
and I sculpt within them all my fears.
I have tried to walk away from this poetry,
But my life is snared up in a verse,
My life is trapped on a piece of paper,
My poetic life is now my curse.
Is it really my curse!!!!!!!!
Or a reflection of my thoughts to the happenings averse….
Into my poetry I must myself immerse
And sharpen my thoughts to make them diverse…….
And my life joyfully traverse
I do not need to walk away from my poetry of mine
Align and live my life filled with mirth and sunshine.
Long poem by
Mariam M. | Details |
A God who is not a human
Not a soul or created thing
A God who always hears and sees
Yet we cannot hear or see Him
A God who tests us, hence we cannot
See Him, a God who never lies
A God without human weakness
-Not Born- A God who does not die
A God who made us with a purpose
To worship Him, worship Him alone
A God who wants us to be Muslims
And Heaven our Eternal Home
By worshiping only One God
And following God's Rules and Laws
Allah is He. God is Allah.
Allah: The God who has no flaws
Allah is not the God of Arabs
Not all Arabs believe in Him
Allah is the God of all of us
Who made everyone and everything
If you ask 'why the name Allah? '
I ask you, why's your name your name?
Imagine your teacher says 'I'm Jane'
If you disbelieve you could be 'lame'
She says, 'Class, I'm Jane; I'm your teacher'
You say, 'I don't want a teacher 'Jane''
Your teacher says, 'my name is Jane'
You say, 'Don't teach, unless your name is changed'
If one has done that, they have rebelled
They're arrogant; they want attention
If you're a troublesome student
Then all you get is detention
So if Allah says that He is God,
That Allah is God, and God Allah
Then believe in God, worship Allah
To avoid Hell and its boiling lava
Allah is One, the Only True God
Allah created you and I
Allah has no children nor wife
Allah needs no bodyguard nor spy
Allah is One, God is Just One
I said 'One God', not 'God in Three'
One God who rules the whole universe
'More than many gods'? How can that be?
If there were many gods as some claim
The whole world would be upside down
False gods would vie with one another
As kings would fight for the same crown
God has no son. God has no daughter.
God has no wife, God did not marry
God is too Powerful and Perfect
God does not weaken nor get lonely
God is Allah, Allah the True God
If you now believe, please testify
That there is no god but Allah
And God was never crucified
Once you have recognized Allah
Remember that Allah has Rules
Rules that must be followed by all
All of God's servants, including you
God commanded us to pray to Him
To Pray to Him each day and each night
To worship Him our Creator Allah
Is the reason why God gave us life