It is spring and a little bird's singing,
It's exulting again in the flight,
Do not lie to me clove that you're seeming
that the lilies bloom wildly and bright.
Oh, I do not believe for some reason,
Let the sun is so fondle to me,
I'm like deaf, but the waking up season
rings with whispering stream that does flee.
The grass rises to heaven, it's noisy,
And collecting the dewdrops of May
Beetle chirps in the green very closely,
And the sudden wind blows it away.
Let it chirps me again, I don't listen,
I have not met with miracles yet,
I'm like deaf, but the waking up season
vivifies our wood that was dead.
And the hearts beat around, pay attention,
And the fire's in eyes of the maids,
And the horses bite bridles of passion
without sparing the blush for the face.
Oh, I do not believe for some reason,
Heart has so many burns, wounds still bleed,
I'm like deaf, but the waking up season
is alluring with sweetest deceit.
Ihanda ang sarili sa Banal na Hapunan,
Ang pagdalo sa pagsamba ay pagtalagahan;
Itaguyod ang ganap na pagbabagong buhay,
Lubos na isulong ang ikapagtatagumpay.
Tumulong tayo sa gawang pagpapalaganap,
Huwag magsasawang mag-anyaya at maghanap;
Akayin ang tao sa mga dako ng misyon,
Itanyag natin ang pangalan ng Panginoon.
Makipagkaisa tayong lahat sa pagsunod,
Huwag tayong manghihinawa kahit mapagod;
Maging maalab sa kasiglahang espiritwal,
Pagpapalain ang sa Diyos ay nagpapagal.
Sasalo tayo sa dulang ng bugtong na Anak,
Upang kupkupin at huwag tayong mapahamak;
Kakain tayo ng tinapay na s'yang katawan,
Iinom ng ubas na dugong kapatawaran.
Alalahanin nga ang kamatayan ni Cristo,
Na dahil sa Iglesia ay ililigtas tayo;
Tinubos tayo sa ating mga kasalanan,
Ihanda ang sarili sa Banal na Hapunan.
‘Tis said we should do what we think is right,
Listen to the voice of Conscience,
The small voice that whispers from the soul,
Call it gut,
Call it instinct,
Call it self,
I call mine Muse.
Too long the pen has lingered,
Toying with procrastination and self-pity,
While my dear Muse watched her beauty fade,
A poet neglecting the creative rites
The blank screen coldly stares,
No thoughts interact on the page,
‘Click’
Facebook seems so inviting,
Yet there it is, looking at me,
The much needed boot to the idle b’hind,
‘Life is short, make the most of it,’
Put your butt in the chair and write.
Form: Freeverse
LET THEM CLAIM THE BLAME
I could blame it on befriending a bastardized crowd
The raucous, rambunctious, rowdy and the loud
I could invent and explain excuses exquisite in exactitude and fact
But they may all be ones I’d be forced one day to redact
I could recite by chapter and verse why I am what I am
And from where all my vices and errors may stem
I might, for instance, instantaneously infer
That all my problems are due to him or to her
I might find people foolish enough to trust in me
And buy into the falsehoods which I doth decree
Sympathy could be a response I’d like to receive
And it wouldst be wondrous if they’d all believe
I may swear by the universe the lies I might tell
And how I came to live in a living hell
However one day I’d have to defend myself with hurdles to vault
Because if the truth be known my addiction is only my fault
© 2011.….Phreepoetree
Banal secrets…
Just another night.
He leaves
a bagful of snacks,
cans of emptiness
scattered on the lumpy couch,
in front of the tube
now broadcasting
a series
on those who are yet to return,
the traceless ones
the lost ones.
The verandah on which
he comes out at night
comes out amid night,
is touched by a sudden gust.
The wind has passed rivers and mountains.
It whispers the name of a sister,
full blood sister of this middle aged man,
who has kept her in heart
and in lungs, there is those nicotine sponged.
The waft calls his lost sister
Traceless, fade away.
He face the brazen night. Dark.
A clueless dog is barking. Is there an entity?
May be just a shadow from the life
he has buried in the town they used to live;
a town which has consumed
a girl returning from school; a town which has always
known this man’s, this brother’s folly.
But
he has only pushed her teasingly; a mere play;
the canal, the greedy canal, which has sucked a girl
sure is the one to be blamed for.
Still
he harks the screams in his suppressed dreams.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
The Hands Around my neck
Increasing its hold with every second
Malady of Kronos
Emit a cry for yesterday'
Clocks aren't all that bad