Mother Nature Cries
Mother Nature cries now her deep tears of true sadness,
For all the years of Man’s sad shame and utter madness.
Man has brought this lovely lady quite often to tears,
By his poor and pathetic care of our Earth over the years.
Mother Nature’s been with Man now it seems forever,
And he does nothing at all and always tells her never!
Man’s climate sins are so tragic and always most telling,
And all he does is bitch and moan, and keeps on yelling!
Man’s span of existence is short in our Earth’s long life,
And all he’s done is corrupt, pollute and caused her strife!
Mother Nature cries at this sad tragedy Man has thus wrought;
She knows his life on Earth may be short, and learn he’ll Not!
Mother Nature will adapt and evolve over time with no problem,
And she knows Man’s adaptability to change may be a problem.
Perhaps Man will learn this sad lesson here before all is too late,
And seek climate harmony in all he does and make positive his Fate!
Mother Nature cries—yet this can change with Man’s redemption,
If Man becomes Earth’s Good Steward and lives by God’s direction!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved - May 3, 2015
*Originally completed for my new book on February 12, 2015.
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
On a slope graced with green
White marble stands in proud salute
For beneath these engraved pillars of memory
Lie the resting places of heroes
A solitary green fir looks down
As if sheltering the lost and the taken
So many names, from all walks of life
A father, brother a girlfriend or wife
On a sunny day, they glow radiant like their lives
On a dull day, they stand out against the greys
For the living, life goes on
Tomorrow is another day
Copyright © James Fraser | Year Posted 2010
If we read the gospel well,
We notice no one rang a bell,
To announce the saviour’d come,
And then when we learn of his mum,
There’s no mention of her donkey ride,
Or of the animals inside,
The stable were the child slept,
It does not tell us if he wept,
And of the weather? Did it snow?
Well we simply do not know,
It rarely snows in the West Bank,
Would be unlikely, to be frank,
And was Jesus born at night?
Did they at least get that part right?
Well it simply does not say,
It mentions not the time of day,
And that’s not all, not by far,
Shepherds saw Angels, Not a star,
It doesn’t say they gave a sheep,
(They were poor and lambs weren’t cheap!)
The Bible tells us many things,
But did not call the wise men Kings,
It doesn’t even call them men,
It only calls them magi then,
It says nowhere they numbered three,
Or if from the Orient they’d be,
It does say that our Lord arrived,
Lived a good life, was crucified,
Just to take away our sin,
So heaven will allow us in,
And this is the truth I will defend,
But just how can a footstep bend?
Copyright © Sharon Smith | Year Posted 2012
Greet the little King,
who has been born in a cold manger
on the holiest of nights;
and by the glitter of a descending star,
He will spread peace in the land...
follow the shepherds and find that sight!
My gift to Him is my joyful song,
and with this clarinet I will usher in His coming...
walk side by side with the pretty angels and rejoice;
bring Him your gift, and surround Him with joy!
See the three Magi arriving on jewel-draped camels,
holding in their laps the gifts of His destiny.
A winter's night has always been completely bright,
every hill is hidden by darkness, but an heavenly light
appears across the frosty sky of Bethlehem, while divine
voices announce Emmanuel's glorious birth,
everyone wakes up and sees that star and follows it;
and where it stops, they find a baby without a crown.
Greet the Son of the Highest, the Wonderful Redeemer,
whom the Virgin Mary has borne in the humblest of places...
in the small town without a temple, or a palace for the Emperor,
where Mary and Joseph will train their child in Godly ways;
greet the little king, He will smile and invite you in,
and His smile will spread peace beyond the star-lit hill.
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2009
Mamma Anna made the best Babba' al Rhum,
you should have seen me how it made me slightly drunk;
and jumping and screaming I danced to the beats of a drum...
then grandma joined in and she sang a classical song!
And the sweet cream was on my lips and cheeks,
the Babba' al Rhum was delicious and I topped it with chocolate;
everybody began shouting, "It came from Paris,
but we Neapolitans reinvented it by improving its shape and taste!"
Mamma Anna made the best Babba' al Rhum, soaking it in that liqueur much longer;
and Papa' always told me to eat more of it...saying with a suppressing laughter,
"It's a man's dessert, after you eat it, you'll be strong!"
Oh, did he really tell me the truth? No, he was wrong!
It's so very sad that they aren't here,
and I am eating pretzels and drink a beer,
the harmony that stirred their passion can't possibly return...
as they danced on the terrace to celebrate the day I was born!
Mamma Anna knew how to make the best Babba' al Rhum,
and I licked the dripping rum with my finger...not my tongue!
She spoke calmly...when she should have gotten mad and picked up a broom;
no, she was never mean and rude, or ever said to me, " Go to your room!"
Copyright © Andrew Crisci | Year Posted 2010
The Old Salt was a special man who came along in a time
when he was needed most.
A time that is now gone forever.
When men believed and sacrificed, when hero’s walked the earth in mass.
When patriotism was not just a word
by what men lived and judged the worth of each,
a man who lived a life most of us cannot comprehend.
An era now gone as this warriors tour of duty ends at this station,
and begins anew in the heavenly fleet.
Sail on Sailor into your unaccompanied tour,
we salute you.
What greater honor, that when a man moves forward,
he leaves behind in each of us the best of what he was.
A defender, protector, supporter, victor, a warrior,
the last of the breed from an era when ships were made of wood
and men were made of steel.
The Old Salt has reported for duty that takes him away from us for now.
Those of us who remain behind,
remember, and will continue to remember,
because he now resides forever in our hearts.
As I look up at night, I envision The Old Salt,
a beret draped just above the eye,
as he draws upon his pipe,
quietly he waits.
The guardian of heaven’s gate.
Copyright © Mac McGovern | Year Posted 2010
When I looked at you last week trying on your new boots
Those almond eyes sparkling at something new, a gift
I saw my little pink girl, a princess, playing dress up again
Your long hair draped your high cheekbones
Life still a game, tinged with drama and theatre
As you look for fun in all your pursuits!
A player in life with a passion for cooking and music
You have become a kind, loyal, vivacious young woman
Self assured, grounded with a love of tradition
I looked at you and felt an overwhelming pride.
Sunday’s child is ' bonny, blithe, good and gay' they say
Befitting my Sabbath girl, a model child of few demands
Your bedroom a vast sea of Barbie and friends
A Passion for story-time and books
Your Dutch life with Irish sea-touched roots,
You are a real continental
A great scholar with degrees in Law and Psychoanalysis
You have found your true love with Luis, a Spaniard
As you both prepare to leave the Emerald Isle
I wonder at the achievement of you!
Copyright © Eiken Laan | Year Posted 2011
Elenor Quine was her name, but they just called her Nellie. My late mother said.
She was born in 1909.She was always apparently the last one up to bed
She was one of my Mothers sisters, who died when she was just twelve years old.
Because she got soaking wet then caught a cold
It then turned to Pneumonia. The year was 1921.
There was not a lot that could be done
My Mother was just ten, at that time. Her other sister was Winnie, Her brothers Bill and Tom.
But they are all now long since gone.
She did have another sister born years after Nellie died.
She was called Bunty When she arrived everyone cried.
She too has long since gone. Throughout the whole of her life my late mother kept a little white dish with two handles on it.
Because it used to be Nellies, I can’t bear to bin it.
This afternoon I just got it down to dust. Then all the memories of what I have been told
Came flooding back to me,. So much history it has. It is so old.
Now it is going back on the top shelf again.
A little dish that holds a story of pain.
So although Nellie I never knew you.
I just wanted to write a little verse about you.
Copyright © pat dring | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
someone always told me this with tears in her eyes...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
a wife left South Africa in the 1960’s to join her husband
who was in exile at the time...
in 1970 the husband was sent by the African National Congress to India to be its representative there...
the husband and wife spent two years in Bombay...
one afternoon the husband fell and broke his leg...
the wife knocked on their neighbour’s door, in an apartment complex in Bombay
the neighbour was an old Punjabi lady...
the wife asked the neighbour for a doctor to see to the injured husband...
a Parsi ‘Bone-Setter’ was promptly summoned...
the husband still recalls his anxiety of seeing ‘Bone-Setter’ written on the Parsi gentleman’s bag...
by the way, the ‘Bone-Setter’ worked his ancient craft and surprisingly for the husband, his broken leg healed quite soon...
but still on that day, while the ‘Bone-Setter’ was seeing to the husband...
the wife and the old Punjabi lady from next door got to talking about this and that and where these new Indian-looking wife and husband were from as their accents were clearly not local...
the wife told the elderly Punjabi lady that the husband worked for the African National Congress of South Africa and had left to serve the ANC from exile...
and that they had left their two children behind in South Africa and that they were now essentially political refugees...
the Punjabi lady broke down and wept uncontrollably...
she told the foreign woman that she too had had to leave her home in Lahore in 1947 and flee to India with only the clothes on her back when the partition of the subcontinent took place and Pakistan was formed and at a time when Hindus from Pakistan fled to India and vice versa...
the Punjabi lady then asked the foreign woman her name...
‘Zubeida’, but you can call me ‘Zubie’...
the Punjabi woman hugged Zubie some more, and the two women, seperated by age and geography, wept, sharing a shared pain...
the Punjabi woman told Zubie that she was her ‘sister’ from that day on, and that she felt that pain of exile and forced migration and what being a refugee felt like...
Zubie and her husband Mosie became the closest of friends with the Hindu Punjabi neighbours who were kicked out of Pakistan by Muslims...
then came the time for Mosie and Zubie to leave for Delhi where the African National Congress office was based...
the elderly Punjabi lady and Mosie and Zubie said their goodbyes...
a year or two later, the elderly Punjabi lady’s daughter Lata married Ravi Sethi and the couple moved to Delhi...
the elderly Punjabi lady called Zubie and told her that her daughter was coming to Delhi to live and that she had told Lata, her daughter that she had a ‘sister’ in Delhi...
Lata and Ravi Sethi then moved to Delhi...
This was in the mid-1970’s...
Lata and Zubie became the closest of friends and that bond stayed true, and stays true till today, though Zubie is no more, and the elderly Punjabi lady is no more...
the son and the husband still have a bond with Lata and Ravi Sethi...
a bond that was forged between Hindu and Muslim and between two continents across the barriers of creed and time...
a bond strong and resilient, forged by the pain and trauma of a shared experience...
and that is why, and I shall never stop believing this, that hope shines still, for with all the talk of this and of that, and of that and of this, there will always be a simple woman, somewhere, anywhere, who would take the ‘other’ in as a sister, a fellow human...
and that is why there will always be hope...
hope in the midst of this and of that and of that and of this...
(for Lata Sethi's late-mother, who was my mother’s ‘sister’ and who took us all into her heart, and for Lata and Ravi Sethi of Defence Colony, New Delhi)
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
She birthed me a star...
Her inner galaxy well travelled.
Seized by womb impact...
Silence - Rattled
Tone tormented yet blissful sigh...
Return to the source - yield rescue the cry...
Triumph this claim as we draw near...
Partake in this memory...
We both share.
Copyright © Eileen R. Kelly | Year Posted 2014
Born into a life of poverty crime and squalor
where hunger and cold winds bite
and disease is rife
and it was a daily battle to stay alive
and find some food to stay alive.
Uneducated illiterate caught in the poverty trap
drinking polluted water
from the same polluted cholera riddled tap.
An impoverished woman
sells her body for a cheap bottle of Gin
and a lodging for the night
while a pickpocket and mutcher
look for a pocket to alight.
The deafening clunk and clatter
of horses and carts on the cobbled ground
and shouts from the street market traders
echo all around.
Children play and run through the narrow
dressed in rags no shoes upon their feet
The putrid stench from the gutter
and thick choking bellowing
smoke from factories
make one heath and make it hard to breath.
Dilapidated hovels and buildings
covered in black soot
horse manure and raw sewage
Beggars with large mournful eyes
reach out pleadingly to the passing gentry
to fill their empty bowls with plenty.
A peeler pins a notice of a forthcoming hanging
at the local Gaol for the few who can read
upon a rusty nail.
A Mother desperate to feed her hungry children
steals a loaf of bread from a market stall
but is soon captured in the sprawl.
The judge sentences her to 10 years
penal servitude far over sea in Botany bay
but she dyes aboard the ship of fever
upon the way.
Her 9 children are sent to the workhouse
for the poor to gain some education
and work hard behind it's hellish door
never to see their Mother or escape poverty
Copyright © Peter Dome | Year Posted 2012
I do not know?
Woman of God,
A Diamond is what you are,
Beautiful & special & sweet,
A diamond a person would strive for,
Built with the lord's armor,
A diamond is the hardest thing to break,
You are shielded and protected by God,
You are my diamond,
My diamond with much wisdom,
You may be a short statue,
But you are wealthy and rich,
In my heart and in the eyes of the lord,
This is simply your time,
Your time and honor,
You lived a wonderful life,
Guided us and teached us the right thing to do,
And I appreciate you,
My pastor, my beautiful grandmother,
And my honorable Diamond,
Prophetess E. J. Woodford!!
Copyright © Vernard Mays | Year Posted 2010
I can hear the horses snorting, outside my bedroom window,
Even though it comes, from so many years ago;
Cotton from the cottonwoods flying through the air,
Making whitened dapples on my palomino mare;
The hounds are all out baying, it must be dinner time;
In my tiny little neighborhood, I was never scared of crime;
Family surrounded me, aunts and uncles all around,
It was quiet on our little street, no sirens made a sound;
My cousins and I would play outlaws, and we’d hide out for a day;
Making mighty forts from the fifty tons of hay;
It never really changed much, as I grew up through the years,
And remembering that it’s gone, always brings me close to tears.
(My Parents sold the house I grew up in last year - It still breaks my heart)
Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2011
Forgotten but here
Remembered yet never there
Why do you exist?
Copyright © Daniel Spencer | Year Posted 2012
Will We Know Him?
Will we know Him if He stood in front of us?
If He walked by us on the street?
Will we know Him?
If we have a chance to meet Him in our lifetime?
In that split second that we meet Him?
Our eyes met for the first time?
Will we know Him?
Yes reading the moment we stood side by side?
Our smiles are very clear
Our heart jumps around
Yes we do know Him?
That look, and that feeling
When we know we've found our home
Yes we do know Him
Yes we know what to say to Him
As we walk away together
Yes we know Him as He knows us His children
We are finally together
Rev. Samuel Mack, OMS
Copyright © Rev. Dr. Samuel Mack OMS DD | Year Posted 2013
We had a steel-coiled fence
that kept us apart; kept in purity,
spoke out in purity.
We played Barbies in a tree that
bordered each side, not knowing
it had a
Our Barbie world was created;
dresses hung on branches
little mirrors for wee doll hands;
leaves assigned our closets.
I gibbered and you jabbered, and
the worst thing happened, I learnt
English, but what happened to your
Language traveled through the holes
of our steel-coiled fence.
Copyright © Gisele Vincent-Page | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
Growing up was hard for me,
I think i grew up to soon,
I had to take charge in the big brother role,
But also i had to take hold to the father role somehow.
My mom was the only one who was there for her children,
We knew that she loved us,
She was in love with my father but he wasn't faithful,
So she found someone else who showed her true love.
My siblings never truly understood it,
I tried my best to encourage them to behave,
Which they listened but to a certain point,
Finally my mom married her true love and the caos began.
My father tried to step back in the picture,
My siblings began to side with my father not knowing the seriousness,
I decided to talk to them one-on-one but neither of them listened,
They wanted for my mom and father to be together.
One day my mother sat them down,
Telling them the hurt and pain she experienced with my father,
She explain to them the whole nine yards,
They understood then and began looking at my father differently.
Getting to the stage of middle school,
We began to see less of our father,
It was his choice...not ours,
He wouldn't call for our birthdays or holidays,
So we leaned mostly on our step-father,
They wouldn't accept him as father,
He would do all he could for us,
But instead the only one(s) who really let him be a father figure was me and the
My step-father loves my mom and has been there for her going on Fifteen years.
He is a firm talk like he's a policeman or something,
But he is a nice person.
My mom loves him and so do we.
So this is a message for all of the children out there who has a no good father....if
your mom has a man or husband, please treat him right because he is there to
protect your mom and you all. Thanks for listening!!
Copyright © Vernard Mays | Year Posted 2011
Goddess of storm and dissidence, Lilith
begot by spurious legend and foolish myth
in the dark recesses of pastoral histories
where ancient mysteries
Apollo's seed, by Roman Empire
inquisitional rules inquire, to her whereabouts
seeping fetid doubts, in the bones of the survivors.
Submission required by slave drivers,
And the Elite,
now on Wall Street.
Twenty five generations later,
they still hate her...
I see her in me, shadows of malcontent,
when passed by for promotion
and toxic lotion is sold to keep us young.
I hear her forked tongue,
when my voice is ignored again,
when single mothers barely maintain
poverty existence led
as punishment for being
Burkas hide the bruises
and we’ve run out of excuses
why so many women are poor.
Our beloved men are sent to war
for corporate profits made
and taxes paid in blood and tears.
Yes I have fears.
I fear her rolling up through me, if they only knew me
and what I hold back, they would attack,
and mark me feminist bytch,
I hear her whisper from sister to brother
from father to mother, lover to lover...
I feel her emerging with Pele’s fire,
Aphrodite’s desire and Venus’s lust.
She is part of us, the Mother’s curse,
foist in the never ending thirst for power
and dominance over all.
Eden’s free fall, orchestrated, ill-fated,
out-dated and reciprocated,
by us, still now, somehow.
The sacred dance beckons us in the second rush
of knowing... rivers flowing, ever to sea.
What will be, will be...
lost in the slipstream currents of the paradigm whore
who dares seek safe passage
to our shore.
Copyright © Krow Fischer | Year Posted 2010
I used to walk in dark places and know that I was safe.
Because I knew that I loved you.
I have abused my brothers and sisters.
I have contaminated your purity with murder.
I have raped your daughters.
I have kidnapped your children.
I have brought your blessed bosom to the brink of destruction.
And now, even when I walk in daylight I do not feel safe.
For now I am aware of what I have been to you.
Worse than a prodigal, I have endeavored to exploit the very mother who nurtures me.
And now that I have worsened whatever imbalance was in you before I arrived,
I endeavor to flee you like a coward through the grace of an oblivious savior.
I have dreamed a dream of water.
I have dreamed a dream of living water.
And in this dream Jesus, my Savior, told me that he was not oblivious.
And in this dream Jesus told me that he was fully aware of my crimes against you.
I have dreamed a dream of fire.
I have dreamed a dream of unquenchable fire.
And in this dream Jesus reminded me that I was sent here to heal you as you taught me of manhood.
And in this dream Jesus told me that if I could not love you, my mother, who I could see, then how could I love my Father in heaven who I could not.
I have dreamed a dream of air.
I have dreamed a dream of whirlwinds.
And in this dream I breathed in the breath of forgiveness and I realized that it was not too late for us.
I have dreamed a dream of earth.
And in this dream, Mother Earth, I see you and us together, fighting for our freedom.
Fighting against the delusion that our fates are not eternally intertwined.
Please forgive us.
For true, we have betrayed you.
But it is not too late.
I promise you that as sure as my savior is in heaven we are going to make it.
I present myself to you as a living witness.
The Lord has not forsaken us.
For within our DNA is the secret to your healing and the end of our insanity.
Thank you for loving and protecting me, even as I raped and wounded you.
And now it is my turn.
“In the name of Jesus, the earth and all of the earth’s inhabitants are one mind, heart, and body. In the name of Jesus, we are one person, one planet, and one purpose. In the name of Jesus, the lion will soon lay down with the lamb and this beautiful sound, this sound of the sacred Gaia will know harmony!!”
Copyright © Woodrow Lucas | Year Posted 2011
I do not know?
For Mother Teresa
the clarity of beauty between the murky folds of life
the simple truths of living
between the horror and the endless strike
the innocent smiles of the children at play
while the elder preach hate and division and continue to slay
the endless yearning for that simpler better place
away from the hollow emptiness of this ostentatious space
the open vistas of this pale blue dot
the soft reds and fruity greens as this home is all we have got
the tears of the dispossessed who have been cruelly cast aside
and while we look the other way from their tears we may never hide
the endless hunger and despair and killing and greed
in the name of God or of ideology or of some or the other creed
and to see it all
and still stand tall
to hold on to the humanity
that resides deep within us all
may be our only saving grace
and though all of this sounds quaint and saccharine sweet
I need to remember all that I've said
the next time I look into a teary-eyed desolate face
that being human is simple if we only look beyond ourselves and see
that we are all one, him and her and them and us and you and me...
Copyright © Scribbler Of Verses | Year Posted 2013
Cooing And Kicking Fun
Parents Favorite Gem of Their Love
Copyright © Marie Harrison | Year Posted 2010
The one you called phantom
Then fled from
A gentle giant meek and strong
His convictions -
Voluntary surrender to get better
He oozes love
Like muscular Mandiba
Listen with your inner ear
He's your brother.
Not a ghost of a chance
No weight weighs him down
His love behooves, sans avaunt.
Copyright © Iris Elizabeth Sankey-Lewis | Year Posted 2015
THE PARENTS IN RHYMES: THEIR LIFE, DEATH AND TIMES
BY JULIAN BOWMAN
Ten months apart, both parents dead
Their stories swirling in my head;
Memories I cannot neglect,
Compel me to write – and to reflect.
My father wrote good poetry -
It scarcely trickled down to me:
He refused to rhyme, called it cheap,
Preferred to be obtuse and deep;
But now he’s dead it seems right
To rhyme some reason from his life.
And not just him, my mother too –
Who should come first – it is her due;
For she gave birth, shaped and steered me -
So this poem’s for those who reared me.
A year ago, mum passed away
Dad struggled on in deep dismay;
For sixty years together they’d grown
And he couldn’t cope with life alone;
So now suddenly I am morphing
Into a late, mature orphan.
But I’m blessed with strong family
And sibling solidarity,
Married with three blooming daughters
Life rushes on, barely falters.
How can I find the time to grieve?
Put pen to paper, I believe;
But I am fearful in every fibre,
Living with a leading writer:
I’m Amrita Thakur’s biggest fan -
Appendage, husband, bloke, old man.
In contrast I can claim no skills
Can’t even write lines with even syllables.
Always hated grammar and rules
Rigid systems are for fools.
But I’ll try to write, inspired by death
And just a bit by Vikram Seth.
This will be fact – it is not “fictionary”-
And will be aided by rhyming dictionary.
But first, let me share a small confession:
Whilst I believe in free expression
I want to share all warts and stains
So I’ve found it best to change the names.
Some writers thrive on blatant piracy
Plundering lives and breaking privacy,
But it’s not for me to expose
Those who want to keep their clothes;
It’s best to respect some identities
So I’m free to dig into obscenities.
Sometimes truth finds best proximity
Through the guise of anonymity.
The rest of this epic poem is available on Amazon - search for Julian Bowman The Parents in Rhyme: Their Life, Death and Times
Copyright © Julian Bowman | Year Posted 2016
I do not know?
America resides within the heart of all
Who believe in freedom, choice, voice and opportunity
Deny, not, the display of pride within yourself
Or else you’d deny pride in this land of the free
America, more than land, it’s home to you and me
Some dare tread, take arms against and try to squash
All that America ever stood for, which is evident to all
They fear the freedom, strength and all that’s offered
As they know, against us, they would never stand tall
And for all their attempts, America makes them fall
This 9-11, let us not focus on terrorist actions
But, on those Americans lost, that still live in our hearts
Remember and honor them by living the American dream
Exhibiting the ideals and always doing our part
Showing all, America has muscle but lives through its heart
Copyright © Michael Degenhardt | Year Posted 2011
rests upon soft summer
swims across my body
taking with it
now they float, high
above the endless
clouds, like seeds
from an empty
wrap me in an invisible
blanket of comfort
tiny, speckles of wet
dew drops from morning
when God kissed the ground
As I lay, feeling
the touch of mother earth
I drift to dream freely
my Native ancestors
dancing and chanting
the songs of my people
A sudden itch on my nose
brings me back to the present
and as my sleepy eyes lift
from crescent slivers
to full dark chocolate moons
I watch as a monarch
dance across my face
and kisses my cheek with
its powdery wing
as it travels
above the endless clouds
like the dandelion seeds
Copyright © Heather Hill | Year Posted 2010
found not guilty, yet her child
is lost forever
Copyright © Cathy Ncube | Year Posted 2011
Calabash from the petals...
Cannot withhold all the joy in her heart
A long way from home
Though all path fade away and travail becomes deeper
for an ordeal to conquer
Papa always away at the stable...
Mama's millstone is never quite in slumber
Beads dancing round the fire
Enjoying the breathe of a new palmwine
Feathers flyng in the wing of summer
Breeze blowing up the cover of imaginations
Pot too hot to hold erasing the memories of tale...
Propelling the courage to thrive
Faith to cross the breached bridge of emotion
Boundaries without sweat and blood
Nor a lifeless pod?
Ajoke is my name!
Copyright © Afolayan Oluwaseun Olanike | Year Posted 2010
I picture Kashmir through lightened KL. News of another massacre darkens my eyes
Winds are thirsty there. They continue to taste the young blood.
I groom myself with exquisite things,
Sipping ice tea in ac room, I comfort myself
And Kashmir burns. Kashmir set ablaze
I can smell the warm blood of beaten corpse
Where from winds bought this smell. Somewhere Karbala reborn.
Mosques are being slammed
There windows stoned. And the black boots leave their footprints on Mimber
Even God judges on evidence
There is one Imaam left now; he hides her daughters in his shadow
A blunt knife in his hands; soon he will sacrifice them to keep their innocence
Kashmir is burning. Kashmir is bleeding
And I write.
Army jeep chases the tracks. To find the associated bodies
They are alive now. Soon they will be dead
From Patan to Sopor, And in narrow passages of nostalgic downtown
Ghosts of curfew
Haunt the houses for young souls.
From the Kupwara cantonments, search lights chase emptiness
Nothing is left now. Search lights can’t see inside the graves
A boy there went missing for two days. His father starts digging his grave.
I put my earphones on and I close my eyes. I sleep
While my Kashmir is ablaze
“It’s me poor farmer’s son. Kupwara’s charm, I feel no pain”.
I see him so alive in my dreams.
He chants songs of Mahjoor from his burnt lips. My hands shiver. He has no finger nails.
I see his smoke tanned skin. Same as that of Khayam’s barbeques
He stands at a distance from me. I can still smell kerosene
“Tell my mother to let her heart become cold. Her heart will not bear my state.
Tell my mother to let her eyes become blind. Her eyes will not withstand my sight.”
I follow him towards his tortured body. He tells me to follow the spilled blood.
His blood has made its own Jhelum. I row on it. Until it gets lost in black boots
The story will turn into legend. I find his body no more.
On the streets silence prevails. Nobody has permission to wail.
Sisters are beatifying coffins while brothers look for stones.
For bullets there will be stones
Kashmir is ablaze. She is wailing in grotesque tones.
In Lal Ded hospital a new born cries: Father register me at cantonment then take me out
Death is recruiting in dozens at a time.
Tomorrow is curfew. Death has no curfew pass.
How they want to identity you. Becomes your identity
People burn up all you identity cards.
Copyright © Muzzaffar Ahmad Shah | Year Posted 2010
A terrible earthquake rocked
Bidding adieu left us shocked
Rescuers worked on the third day
Looking exhausted and in dismay
Suddenly mixed feelings filled the air
When they lifted two up the metal stair
Shielded from the falling fragments
Embraced and protected within a mother’s garment
Wrapped in a carcass that offered comfort
A live six month-old baby girl put her effort
She moved having been suckled on that fateful day
By her mother who had entered the unknown gateway
Only this could have crammed her mind
Let me die so that they could find
My child alive; my child must live
So, she breast-fed until alive
One could compare her love to a mystery
Her life after death is but history
Tears trickle from stony hearts
Also from those carrying debris in their carts
Like a mother longing to hug her child
Our Creator waits to embrace us His child
He can pick us up from any rubble
And in us can make joy bubble
Copyright © esther robinson | Year Posted 2009
How you’ve completely lost your sanity.
Did you forget how to grow?
Every one of you was planted row by row.
Did your heavenly Father not nurture you with love?
Did He not make the rains fall from up above?
Oh where is your heart?
Who gave you your first start?
Daylight hours just wash ashore,
With simple lives from once before!
Have you forgotten your heavenly Mother?
And what about your heavenly Brother?
Where is your Godforsaken mind?
What happened to being loving and kind?
How you’ve provoked such a calamity!
® Registered: Ann Rich 2006
Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2009