Best Famous John Matthew Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous John Matthew poems. This is a select list of the best famous John Matthew poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous John Matthew poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of John Matthew poems.

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Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Die in shame!

 You hide your face in shame,
But I can see your private parts,
Have you no contrition,
To expose yourself, shamelessly, thus?

Tell me what does it feel,
To be watched while you strain?
Is that why you hang your head in shame;
Has all embarrassment left you?

I know it’s hard; you need your money,
But couldn’t you put the money —
You spend on spirits and tobacco,
To use that public facility on the street corner?

Is it communion with nature you seek?
Or the pleasure of shocking,
Young children, and pubescent girls?
Your revenge, your wretchedness!

If it’s your laziness, unforgivable indolence,
And reluctance to pay Rupee two, 
And wash with dignity in that public facility,
Then bury your face, wretch, and die in shame.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Is White a Color?

 White, pristine, unblemished
They say it is not a color
I love white mists, clouds
Lingering on blue mountains.
White, no shades No off white, cream Pure as snow on shimmering peaks Is my favorite sight.
Nurses, priests, politicians Are bound, chained to white White nebulous clouds evoke deep nostalgic thoughts.
They swaddled my father in white As he lay in the black coffin His best shirt was white His loin cloth was white.
The paper I write is white White is holy, pure They say light is white Because it combines all colors.
So white is the mother of all colors The churning of all yellow, blue, green Colors sacrifice their egos To the eternal white.
They say they are "white" The purest of all races I think they aren't white But pink, beige and red.
Why can't colors of people Merge and become white Would people called "white" Allow their color to merge? Is white a color? The matriarch of all colors The fountain of all extent colors Yes, king white reigns supreme!
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

To my son

 You will realize this wisdom,
When you are my age, and experience,
Gained from being in vexing situations,
Yet, being out of it.
You do the same, There is a joy in detachment, Forsaking instant pleasures, pains, For things deeper and enduring.
Don’t be a slave to the work, Of smart slave-drivers in cubicles, Instead explore the works of men, Who have experienced the truths, And distilled in their words, wisdoms, Which may grate your ears now.
Like me, don’t be prey to sudden, Rushes of anger that comes over cables, And with emails and posts demolish, Without thinking of consequences - I have done that and am living to regret.
Don’t drink bottled and sealed lifestyles, Its sugar, water and carbon dioxide, Will dither you, disorient you, and sap you, And don’t eat fast food with loose change, They will suck you into their assembly line.
Lastly do not try to see with closed eyes, And hear with deaf ears, keep them open.
The music and rhythm can corrupt, And make sinning seem so tempting.
The age of innocence, son, is gone, Every man is a mercenary army.
If you follow this advise, son, When you are mature and wise as me, You will say, one day, “Thank you Papa, For your words of advice, wisdom, To my children, too, I will pass this wisdom.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

The Bombay Train Song

 He hangs on dangling handholds
As the train sways and careens
Endless nondescript buildings unfold
Their secrets as the tired warrior returns.
The day is over the night falls Thickly through the barricaded windows The man’s sleepy head lolls On his shoulder in a dream disturbed.
The days are a hard white collar brawl The sleepless night stretches ahead There’s no space for a fly to crawl The morning paper is still unread.
You who sleep standing Don’t drool on his shirt It will cost him a lot of spending If you pour on him all your dirt.
Plastic bags, umbrellas, Tiffin The rack is full and the seats overflow What is that smell Peter Griffin? Is it the Sewri sewers overflowing? Beware of pickers of pockets Who surround and slash with knife Careful of your arm’s sockets Lest they dislocate and misery make life.
Welcome to Bombay’s bustling trains Hold on fast as if you are insane!
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

To an Online Friend

 May be the whole thing was a dream,
Pinched myself awake this morn,
To check if you are there, virtually,
And felt your sudden absence online!

Be sure you will always exist,
In a special place in my heart,
Your smile in pixels is so sweet,
But, no, you are too good to be true!

Where are you? Do you exist?
Do you still inhabit Internet protocols?
And virtual chats and emoticons
That in joyous moments I watched.
Now that you are gone; are you Among your charmed admirers? I wish you well, I will miss you, May you be ever happy and smiling! Distances and togetherness, Opposites, can’t networks cross, I could never bridge the distances Of your sweet kindness.
Someday, if you feel betrayed, And, as weepy as a monsoon cloud, Remember this friend who still cares, And felt fulfilled by your brief warmth.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem


 Resolutions I have made,
Kept, I have none,
Why do I have to make,
Resolutions anymore?

I pause through endless time,
For this year to pass,
And the lights of celebration to die,
On this New Year day.
Remember those magical days, When the promise of togetherness, Held us together, tentatively, Alas! No more! Years just flow by, As water beneath bridges, Gathering speed towards, The great sea of immortality.
There you and I, Will rest our weary heads, On the silken bed, Of our broken promises.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem


 In your bosom we wake up with fear,
In your sky there’s only unending tears,
You always roar, but within,
Hangs silence like a shroud of death.
You are rocked, periodically, by bombs, Yet, we go about our business, As if nothing happened, all’s well, Are we too dazed to protest? In your hungry, convoluted entrails, Lie pauper and millionaire, Separated only by the whimsy, Of your very partial benevolence.
On your skyline of sooty chimneys, Decaying concrete, bristling antennas, Are the sad stories of fortunes, Made and lost, just as lost loves.
City of gold, they say, which never sleeps, Will you stay awake, tonight, Wipe away our cascading tears, And give our tired bodies some sleep?
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Being Me!

 Wild are my ways, wilder than you think
You will find me standing a little left of frame
You will find me a little away from the meeting place
I am that and much more, insignificant me.
Yes I am the one with the faraway look Of sailors of vast dreamy oceans I look at faraway seas and mountains And wonder why they aren’t near.
There’s great bitterness and dejection That churns, congeals and emanates in my words I think, I write, I orate, because I must The anguish is great, there’s an ocean’s churn.
The world passed me by while I wandered Over the personal deserts and wastelands of my life To stories I wrote and the stories became me Characters became me and I became them.
Crap me, scrap me, scratch me you will find A man too deeply obsessed by observing the world Who feels his words and sentence lay trapped Inside him crying for want of pixels and time.
Out there he stands that man on a moonlit night Shining like a tube and ranting like one possessed Talking his story that no one cares to understand Because it’s not his story but ghost stories they craved!
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Delhi – A Re-visitation

 It’s akin to visiting my foster mother, today, 
That I am returning to you, mother city, after twenty years,
I look at your broad, bereft blood-stained streets, mater,
Through which emperors, prime ministers cavalcaded,
In victory and defeat, through gates and triumphal arches,
That murmur of the pains of your rape and impregnation.
The sudden shock of your poverty upsets me, It is evident in the desperation of the cycle-rickshaw puller, His eyes intent on the ground, standing on his pedals, He pulls his woes, as if there is no halcyon tomorrows.
Your grimy streets are dusty, high walled, impenetrable, As if you wish to guard the gory secrets within.
Is this where histories, dynasties were erected, to fall? A dynasty now rules by proxy the city of the great Akbar, And a fratricide of a politician now fills you with awe, When you are the city of kingly fratricides and parricides.
Remember how Dara Shukoh was marched and beheaded, In your own street of Chandni Chowk, of not long ago? The secrets of your devious present and past mingle, Where now stand glitzy malls, I know, blood had flowed, In your dark corners soldiers, spies, princes plotted to kill, You witnessed the dethroning of emperor Shah Jehan, And the ascendance of his wily progeny, Aurangazeb, And you covered your face in the folds of your veil.
Yet, now, mother city, your tears are dry, your sobs silent, Slowly you die, spent and ravaged by your many lovers.
Though it is kitsch melodies that you hum today, you were, Serenaded by Tansen, and Amir Khushro Dehlavi, In your parlor once, poets and artists did conclave, Over the “daughter of grapes” and the smell of hafim!
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem


 I pause midway in the in the whirl,
Of deadlines, things undone,
And average the sadness and joys -
There remains only loneliness,
Of which I see no cure,
No bitter palliatives, no anodyne.
We remain in life’s journey, Like loners sitting depressed, On solitary park benches, or, Standing in balconies, staring, Loneliness gnawing at our minds, As hungry ants at a grain of food.
Often in life’s vicious lanes, In lonesome moments, It’s our failures we ponder, Not trasient joys and victories, We do not remember other's courage, Only their faults, and habits.
When in each passing lonely moment, I count the millions of joyous seconds, I was alive to witness this world, and, Hurtful mimetic thoughts that passed me by, My loneliness vanishes, I scream, “I live; I am alive this lonely moment.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Where Giant Mushrooms Grow!

 In Nevada there is a field where giant mushrooms grow
One mile high and two miles wide, they say on the show
That’s where they test how to vaporize people and flesh
By splitting and fusing atoms and start the world afresh.
A new era, a new definition, with the nuclear shield Dawned with huge mushrooms grown on Nevada fields Can erase whole cities, no need for guns or battle tanks Tomorrow’s wars, the voice says, will be fought without ranks.
They are making bullets and missiles with lasers That can picture the enemy, see in the dark, and subdue angers Future soldiers don’t have to die for their country’s glory They use their global positioning bullet, that’s the story.
Agree with me, don’t dissent, fall in line futile windmill tilters Your wars are lost before you even see victory, dissenters No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.
They say their soldiers are smart , they see in the dark Their bullets can pierce armor; they can blast your mark Where were you soldiers of the mind, I mourn When from your toils such Frankensteins were born? No more carpet and saturation bombing and damnation alley They have no time to negotiate it’s you or them, you have to die.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Muskaan — A Poem

 When she smiles she sends happiness
A million pleasant thrills of the heart
To parched souls thirsting for love 
In the vast desert of human affairs.
Oh, is there in this world such a heart? So pure in its expression of joy, smiles I know not how to thank you dear God For this wonderful creation of yours.
What makes Muskan’s smile so beautiful? Is it the deep pain and hurt she is hiding? Wringing the joys from the sadness of life Throwing away the bland fiber and rinds.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Time Stands Still over Govandi Station

 A kite flutters,
On a high tension wire —
Against a stark blue sky.
Beggar and old mother huddle On Govandi Railway Station — The dirtiest station in the universe.
He shows her a plastic watch, Smiles, “See I have time,” She, old, gnarled, wrinkled, Looks through beady eyes, “I have no need for time.
” Children toss rubber ball — In cricketing passion.
Jagged slum roofs puncture the sky, Open drain stinks.
Mother and son — Hungry, disowned, dispossessed — Govandi platform is home.
A plastic bag, clothes muddy brown, He extends a hand, A black plastic watch on wrist, “God will do miracles, Give this man a meal.
” The kite flutters; Time stands still over Govandi Station.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Sonnet for Mother

 Decked in blooms,
Swaddled in gold filigreed shrouds, 
Smeared with perfumes,
She traveled into the clouds.
A life of love lived, A life of more giving than taking, Living a life of tears shed, Turnings, and missed crossings.
She lies still beside father, In an earthen grave dug for her, On ere visits she knew this sepulcher, And, with her man, she would rest there.
There is a time when we all connect And then we all must self-destruct.
Written by John Matthew | Create an image from this poem

Passing showers

 Yesterday a passing, transient shower,
Slaked my thirst so gently, softly,
Showers in March are unheard —
In this arid part of the world.
They say the world is dying, I know, I remember how you said love died, It was a passing shower, a fancy, That left you cold and shivering.
This distance, these wired networks, Couldn’t bring your love to you, You became strangers, distances apart, The eyes, too, misted with showers.
What are you holding in your heart —? Which you can’t tell me in stealing time, What is it that your sorrowing soul, Keeps wrapped in the mystery of your words? Friend, your world is far removed, I can only view the receding landscape, Of another woman’s deep distress, Is it much to expect the showers to pass? If you come out of the fort, step over the moat, Open your heart and cry in the rain, I am sure the passing showers will cease, And usher in the blossoms of spring!