Long poem by
Shroyon Dasgupta | Details |
Getting confused between the two
Wondering what they think about you
Who thinks you are trustworthy friend
And who thinks that you will bring his friendship to an end
Although you can’t say what they are thinking by how they pretend
But it can help you to some extent
Like Old Phil, he’s looking at the clock
Maybe he is waiting for his daughter to take a walk
And his daughter is looking at her father
Wondering how to get rid of this walking disaster
Now comes stage two, the tricky part
How to be sure that you predictions are right, you thought
Just see their body language and the way the speak
If it is a smile or a squeal or a squeak
Smile means best friends
Squeal means they’re tensed
Squeak means of you they are afraid
My technique works like I said
The third and the final part is the trickiest of all
Do it right, or fail and fall
You have to know how to react
Otherwise they will win in their act
If in an angry or spoilt mood
You should run and hit the road
Staying near that person may be hazardous to health
And as you know “Health is wealth”
If sad or disheartened, wish him well
Let him not experience Earthly hell
Make his mood better, worse do not
Then he will be angry, and you will have thought
If only you had listened to me
You wouldn’t suffer this pain and agony
If someone’s afraid just reassure him
That you are a human, not a Kraken
Go near him and talk with him you may
But never a loud or unpleasant word you shall say
The fear is coming down, it’s still not gone
Just one pint of pressure can make it go all wrong
If someone needs your help but he cannot speak it out
Go to him and tell him to blabber it very loud
Then tell him what you can try to do
If you cannot, just make up a point or two
He’s your friend, your help he needs
By helping him, your friendship will germinate, just like a seed
Though difficult at first trust slowly builds
Even deeper than the oceans, or higher than the hills
If someone wants to no longer be your friend
You should bring the friendship to an end
Pleading just heats up the argument
Just keep touch with him to an extent
And when opportunities rise and they will
Your enmity, you can kill
By impressing him to the full extent
And making sure that his heart is content
You can bring your friendship back
Then ask what quality’s you lack
Then just work to make the bad things better
They will come in handy later
So now I told you what to and what not to do
Reading minds is what I taught you!
Copyright © Shroyon Dasgupta | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Viraj Shah | Details |
"Louis!",she calls out.
Yes,ironically I am the namesake.
A signboard-Please don't hurt me.I'm blind.
"Are you lost in thought again?
You and your stupid world!"
My stupid world.
I see her bite her tongue in my mind.
A smile on my lips.
"I am so happy today!
Won't you ask why?"
Such conversations are a mark of years of friendship.
"I am in love!
Oh how beautiful the world looks
The hues, colours.They have deepened.
I wish I could lend you my eyes,
Just so you could see this for me
I wish I could explain everything."
I attempt to seem excited.
But it hurts.
Is the pain 'cause she talks about colours, in mockery of my blindness?
Or is it 'cause she will be gone?
Anyway, pain doesn't come with a tag does it?
I wish it did.
I guess love is blind 'cause even she couldn't see-Reality.
No!It can't be as horrible as cecity.
I guess the lover is blind.
Do I?No,can't be,she's only.
I perceive it is how you long for something,
When you see it being taken away.
I should tell her what she means to me.
I never have.No I shouldn't.
I hate this darkness.I hate this world.
Is it monotony or monochrome?
That which incurs upon the world,
A blind man's curse; my curse.
Monotony I infer,
Cause I never have seen other colours.
Or is it because I never have seen other colours.
That I am anguished in my void.
That, has to be it.
Cause sameness,it’s part of my life.
A measured comfort.Measured in my steps,in my touch.
I should go for my evening walk,get some stale fresh air,like every day.
My stick isn't where it’s supposed to be.
Did I smell her perfume today or was it his?
Where is my cane?
How long has she kept this from me?
Ah!There it is.
No,this can't be.A crack!
Couldn't she have told me before? Maybe I never took her hints.
But I loved this stick. She gifted it to me.It was perfect.
I know every curve on it,Every dent.It fits in my hand perfectly.
I guess I should move on,she is happy.
I can't do with this stick.
No I can't do without it.
Can't someone fix it?
Damn You God.Damn you life.
I guess even atheists look towards Almighty
When they really are desperate.
Am I dreaming?
Is it a nightmare?
After all it is hard to tell when it's dark all the time.
Who kept that there?
Her bag.She must have left it when she came.
She forgets it so often.
A smile on my lips.
Copyright © Viraj Shah | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Anthony Thomas | Details |
The body is the portal to which Evil uses to enter the Universe, our World, and our Lives. Evil could not exist without these three portals:
If all Man, Woman and Child said nothing harmful or misleading, conflict and war would not exist. There would still be differences but they would be resolved in favor for all Man, Woman and Child with words of wisdom and concern.
(Our emotions and feelings at the time make up the words that come out of our mouth. Knowing this you should know that while speaking in a destructive mind state you are about to say something harmful and destructive, and it would be wise at this moment to hold your tongue (harsh and demeaning words you can’t take back, should never be heard…be it directly to or spread by rumor). And no Man, Woman or Child should have the need to mislead or lie to another. To end lying we must look at what we lie for, into what we try to accomplish by lying? We lie to make ourselves look honest, we lie to make ourselves look responsible, we lie to gain acceptance, we lie to make ourselves look faithful, we lie to make ourselves look trust worthy, dependable, concerned and kind, we lie to eat well, we lie to live comfortable. We must acknowledge then teach our children and show our families and friends that people who live truly Godly don’t lie to have or be these things; they just do and are.)
2. Body Action
If a hand is not raised, a person is not struck.
If a sword is not waved, a person is not cut.
If a trigger is not pulled, a bullet can’t fly.
If a fire is not set, a home is not burned.
If a button is not pushed, a missile is not launched.
(Our emotions and feelings at the time; sometimes trigger body reflexes that harms another person be it intent or involuntary, it is uncalled for, unacceptable and avoidable. No one is struck for no reason and out of nowhere; there is always either a difference of emotions, a difference of understanding, a difference in belief, a difference in culture, be it whatever the difference; lack of Love, Concern, Respect or Self-Control, there is no excuse to harm someone else. That is not the way of our Great Creator, God gave us this World to Love one another, to Create and Sing for one another, to Entertain and Invent for one another and to Share Joy with one another. We are here to live for one another, but we live for self. We want to control everything, but we can......... message continued in (These Are The Portals Of Evil -- Part 2 of 2)
Copyright © Anthony Thomas | Year Posted 2014
Long poem by
Rhoda Monihan | Details |
At school I excelled at maths,
And English I found very hard;
Essays and interpretations floored me,
Although at poetry I was a bard.
But I managed a B in my O Grade,
Under the old teacher who was past it,
But was relieved when she fled and left,
Overjoyed when a young graduate started.
Throughout the school holidays with vocality,
I swore I’d been fine with the new teacher,
But my parents insisted that I have a tutor,
For Higher English, for university to enter.
I was very angry ‘cos I knew I’d get in,
With my other grades, two A’s and maybe a B,
So if I even got a C for 5th year English,
That wasn’t gonna upset or bother me.
But they just didn’t understand socialism,
That state schools were just as good,
And continued to deride my special school,
Which had school care very much under the hood.
So John from Edinburgh Academy came along,
Every Thursday to tutor me at Higher English,
But my biggest issue was that he attended,
My parents church and possessed an evangelical blush.
I really wanted to discuss the romantic poets,
The course novel and my essay interests and topics,
With a normal person who was not north on society,
Who would nurture me without any Christianity antics.
He had an axe to my neck about John Keats,
About Keats’ Ruth and how the man believed in god,
But I said No, no, no, he’s an atheist, a romantic,
About nature which was then far too divinely awed.
I didn’t even ever write the essays I wanted,
In fear that John would make my life harder,
And I always thought before I spoke to him,
Which is not the best for an English tutor.
But he is a very interesting, loving man,
And I did ask if I could use his last name,
To refer to him, to suggest a distance,
Between his views and mine, not the same.
He wouldn’t let me, but I got a B in the end,
And enjoyed anyway his lessons on literature,
How to express yourself and answer the question,
And knew to buffet his regressive caricature.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Chris Boskovski | Details |
Inspired and dedicated to the famous, to the Royal families, to the actors and actresses, and pop stars, who live lives of Uncharishable Fame.
"Fame is a struggle and the lives that surround it are not happy." - Christopher Boskovski
Fame, have you ever walked down the streets of stars?
Have you stood on a stage with a beam of spotlight on you
at center stage, delivering a sweet monolouge of peace and love?
Fame, do you know how it feels to be followed along city streets,
and bustling cafes by flashing lights, and Poperazzi?
You strike a pose, you sign an autograph, and you are late for a dinner reservation.
You grow dark, and hungry and you seem not so happy,
but yet you smile?
Fame, do you like to be famous?
Is it a fun life to live?
Somedays living in Mansions and others out of the suitcase.
Somedays eating lobster by the bay, and others, cold pizza on Saturday.
Are you misreable, not knowing the womanthat you love, loves you back, or loves your
wallet that is so fat?
Books upon books of love poems staked towers of romance that scrambles your brain,
and leaves you with tears of sorrow in your eyes.
Fame, enough of the fake smiles
and red carpet wardrobes and be true to yourself.
Stop and smell the morning roses that bloom,
walk through the parks with smiling faces on every corner,
before all that beauty goes away.
Fame you don't see color, you see black and white.
Contracts, nothing about love, only about wages.
Live life, before everything around you dies.
Be happy and true.
I ask you fame,
come away from your money and expensive cars and cell phones
and live life, instead of living a fabricated one.
Read a book of poetry,
that shows true beauty.
Stop making yourself happy, reading tabloid viewings,
in morning newspapers of yourself.
Look in the mirror and smile.
Fame, I tell you now, you are not happy.
Come with me
take my hand, and sail with me.
For Fame, I shall show you a golden dream in reality.
Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
Quincy Mac | Details |
>>1111>>MY WRITINGS GARMENTS<<1111<<
Wo! Unto the man who stands
And asserts that my writing intends,
To relate only commonplace things,
And secular narratives,
It’s not even relative,
For if it were so,
You would want to know,
That in the present times,
Yeah I’m telling you this within a rhyme as I’m sitting,
Likewise a writing might be written as I’m living,
And given with more attractive narratives.
Now I’m sick of all the arguments,
The narratives of my writings are its garments,
Come on readers I want to hear your comments!
Cause he who thinks these garments are the writing itself,
Doesn’t have true wealth and needs some,
They need to run and deserve to perish because they are dumb,
And have no share in the world to come.
Wo! unto the fools who look no further when they see an elegant robe!
Stagnant, mentally unfit to find answers across the globe, dimwit!
More valuable than the garment is the body which carries it,
Take note to the following, I recommend wisdom to everybody,
More valuable even than that is the soul which animates the body,
Cause fools only see the garments of my writings,
The more intelligent see the body, it’s more enticing,
Get with my writings, inviting anybody and all,
The wise see the soul, and take it personal,
And go on seeing its proper being, on a higher level,
In this current time we have been dealt,
The “Upper Soul” of my writings will stand revealed and felt.
These words are not mine and don’t dwell as a belief system in my mind,
This allegorical narrative is knowledge intertwined,
With tricks and how to learn to be quick,
Mentored by enlightened Semitic Jewish mystics,
You’re unintelligent, always quit, internally sick,
You’re wanting the mindset of being awake and conscious,
But you can’t reach what you’re after, its above you and afar,
Because you don’t have basic knowledge of the Zohar.
Copyright © Quincy Mac | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Carol Eastman | Details |
A few moments after a hard summer shower we went to get the mail.
It was something in which my son, his dog and I certainly could prevail.
A trickle of rain ran down the drive, something not to be ignored.
With a splash, splash, whomp, whomp, he sent the water really far.
Heaven forbid that raging torrent should wash us away you know.
So he stood in front watching, making a formidable dam to stop the flow.
Then a leaf became a boat, sailing rather quickly down the drive.
He stayed in front, mesmerized, and then he finally watched it float on by.
With fascination on his face, he watched the trickles’ every move.
Then a burly frog came up, a monster king, that from the dog quickly flew.
The dog had saved my prince you know, from imprisonment in yonder pond.
For the frog was the villain, and within every good story, one must be found.
The hero became my prince, as he saved several lowly worms that day.
The worms of course declared undying loyalty, as on higher ground they lay.
In fact, the whole of the wormy world voweled to help him, that day henceforth.
And you never know when the wormy world, will be needed to sally forth.
At this time we found the mailbox, and my little prince quickly became engrossed.
My neighbor and her daughter were getting theirs, so my son hid behind the post.
When she smiled, he smiled back. A truce between kingdoms, now we could boast.
And they ran together that day, to every puddle that we did not find remiss.
At that point it became apparent, that the prince had found his little princess.
They lived happily ever after in the sun and in the rain they couldn’t resist.
And all because they’d found each other, that day in their Realm of Rainy Bliss.
CSEastman Contest:Litle Kids Again Child: Preschool (3?)
Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2013
Long poem by
christopher nilo | Details |
has the choice to speak
into the pockets of wind which are parcel carriers
connecting the truth with whispers
heard on a deafening level
only overshadowed by silence
shaking loose the lies
sleeping in the crevices of the fraying veil
tattered in sounds of smiles sounding laughter
to tear open the tears that have damned up faith
leaping like a frog catching light
born from incubators in the veins of lily pads
padding pillow tops underneath narcoleptic dreams
envisioning a visage of voluptuous vaults
protecting gemstones donated by gravity
in a tail spin
spinning tales to be told
at a dinner party hosted by the sun and the moon
gathering gratitude with a net made of stars
caressing composure courageously
with hearts beating in synchronized stares
staring into eyes worn by your energy
that has been an architect for our ancestors
since an apparatus was designed to authenticate
inspiration used to create and validate
reasons to change like the seasons
seasoning the hourglasses recycling time
tripping over lay lines beginning to sway
like the song fermenting in the clouds still yet to rain
so let go of the reins
there's no sense in trying to control
reflecting directions reflectively directed
by reflections that direct a reflected directive
able to reflect inner directives
balancing the compass
leading to compassion
so blossom and pass on in
don't forget to remember landmarks
marking the lightyears you've traveled
aging with grace given by the ripples of righteousness
nestling the words i was chosen to write
Copyright © christopher nilo | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
Christina Hons | Details |
No matter what happens or what may go wrong
The point is to remain tough and to stay strong.
Life isn't easy. There are lessons you need to learn.
Everything will work out for the best. Just wait your turn.
Friends will come and go. True ones stick around.
They help you when in need and when you're feeling down.
It pays to be the quiet one but always stick your ground.
Don't let anyone disrespect you or you will forever be pushed around.
Love isn't everything because most of the time it is lust.
If there is one thing I have learned it's be careful who you trust.
Sex may seem like everything but in a real relationship it's not.
Communication and trust...Now that's what says a lot.
Of course there needs to be attraction and some loving play.
If there is never any between you two, how do you expect the other to stay?
Choose your words wisely. Think before you blurt.
Emotions are fragile things. Feelings easily get hurt.
Never sit too close to the t.v. you might just hurt your eyes.
They will help you see the truth in the mist of all the lies.
Live your life to the fullest. Regret nothing that you do.
In the end, no matter what, your past catches up to you.
Work hard for everything. Expect nothing for free.
Don't waste your life sitting around wondering what might be.
Don't waste your time with someone if you do not trust them.
In the back of your mind you will always believe they will do it again.
While reading this or afterward you had to take a breath and sit down
Then you know something about your life has to be turned around.
Copyright © Christina Hons | Year Posted 2015
Long poem by
keith baucum | Details |
"Our Father which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
in earth, as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts,
as we forgive our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil:
For thine is the kingdom, and the
power, and the glory, for ever.
The two sisters Mary and Elisabeth said the Lord's prayer
every night. On their knees, in unison, in the room of their
father and pastor Zechariah Love Israel as he watched.
"Very good Mary and Elisabeth. Now get the Bible and read
a verse". The oldest sister Mary got the Bible off the nightstand
and turned to Genesis chapter six. "And it came to pass when
men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters
were born unto them, that the sons of God saw the daughters
of men that they were fair; and they took them wives of all
which they chose". Raising his hand for Mary to stop reading.
Zechariah walked over and took the Bible out of her hand. He
then had the two sisters turn towards each other and undress
each other. "Daddy please not to night. Elisabeth and I don't
feel well". "Now Mary you both know the Lord God will heal
you through me". The crimes and acts that Zechariah commited
that night was unspeakable. Every morning Mary and Elisabeth
would try to scrub the betrayal of their father off their flesh.
"Our dead mother must be crying her eyes out in heaven" Elisabeth
said to Mary as they got ready for church.
Written by Keith Edward Baucum aka The Brown Philosopher
aka The Green Poet aka Red Seven
Copyright © keith baucum | Year Posted 2014