Listen to poem:
Hear the whispers inside
Chanting from long ago
Echoes come and go
Losing time in a soft eternal glow
A beautiful and delicate autumn mountain scene
Dry blue eyes enchanting melodies!
Voices fall from the sky; -Rising hymns release
-ancient demons that CLING to the soul
Darkness dwells under - gentle moonlight
Ancestors of the Spirit World!
Weaving Native smoke into the barren air
Indian spirits haunt the muddy Earth---
Moccasin makers rise from underneath; While
guardians of dream catchers - print the Universe
Smooth thread from the outer world;
Arrowheads, Ivory gems, feathers, and illusions
I stumble upon a florid kiss....... My veins;
Run Cold, like ice through a desert night.
Winds of enchanted drums - cry out for rain
Hollow chimes mesmerize, my ties, my eyes
An ancient rage begins to flare --- MADNESS!
- takes place among the sanity of who I am
The spear of the perfumed buffalo scrapes my skin
I remove the veil that covers my eyes
The hands that cover my ears
Drying the scalp that bleeds on my face
KINDRED IN EVERY WAY!
Raven silk braids and feathers on my hair
Dancing in a horrid hallucination of Peyote,
Waking up from the “American Dream.”
Holding out my arms, I am free, I can fly.
I AM A BIRD!
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
Different eyes, the same world
Ancient skin, dirty Indian Girl
Smokey, eyes, exotic raven hair
---Now listen to the colors, of transformation,
On the day she was born, the wind blew in,
A blessing ---her soul, fallen from the heavens
A gorgeous puff of smoke, Miss Virginia Slim
Able to walk the world with an open mind, she twirls
Pocahontas, one of her many names.
She carves, and climbs on trees, this little Indian Girl,
Her feathers ride with the wind, against her red titian skin
Daughter of Chief Powhatan, a powerful tribal, red man
Peace and love with the Indians of her Virginia Lands,
Many myths, many stories, maybe a mad woman,
A new Christian, living sad poverty, a silent hero,
Twisted tales, from savage green to ivory white religion
In her eyes, life never was about greed and skin
Her new look attained an altitude precision
Pocahontas tricked and captured,
Set to sail another tribe, lands were taken over,
Boat sailed out of Virginia Lands
Tribes acclaimed her to be wild and ambitious
"The naughty one," searching for admission
Native American child, before the princess,
Her beautiful soul, a short auspicious beginning
Leaving her world, beautiful and fearless
Forgetting her roots-- From Mother Willow's Vision
Pocahontas, the Indian Legend from, The Virginia Lands
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath,
laid a sheet of slippery freezing cold by my feet
and then whispered in my ear right to the drum
that echoed in my brain with excruciating pain.
She, his wife was of a complete different temperament
quietly without fuss she crafted blanched cotton flakes,
each a masterpiece, unique as if she retained every design
she had ever imagined so each time she could create anew.
He however with his bravado with his swelled chest
would pepper speeding glass-like pellets into the air.
Sting our faces without regret. Salt our wounds.
Mercilessly bite into our flesh with his frosted fangs.
Daintily she'd sprinkle the sky with the magic of her cheer
feather the atmosphere in a delicate splatter of alabaster.
Layer by layer she laid soft sheets of snow to the delight
of everyone alike creating a playground of endless mirth.
His breath reeked of dreams frozen, nipped in the bud.
Already he had high jacked his sisters, the Autumn twins
sent them packing, hurried, gathering their rustic garments.
He had no love of his siblings except his baby sister, Spring.
His wife loving and caring would temper his yearly onslaught.
She knew of his pain, deep, abandoned by his father Summer.
At times she'd blow slightly warmer air to provide respite for
us mere humans and allow the sun to warm our weary bones.
They would sit together and it was her would bring out
the albums of family photos view pictures of his mother.
Her smile like music would soothe his stone cold heart.
He loved, when she'd visit in the guise of an Indian Summer.
With his icy fingers he stole my smokey breath.
I felt her presence there to temper his harsh avail.
Winter had arrived but when they walked as one
this magnificent couple dressed in their royal winter whites,
without a second thought you would bow in front of their regal
stance, a sight to behold, one that encompassed the entire land.
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Contest Name: Seasons
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
An infinite door of midnight blue;
glowing peephole that is the moon.
Dare I look before turned to dust?
Yes, dear friend, I surely must.
In the midst, a city of finest gold,
large as the earth; immense and bold.
Quoins of pearl, this must be known,
the lusture seemed a life, it's own.
Rising from it, a mountainous temple;
whisps of prayers escape the steeple.
Without the city, fields of crystal flowers,
and trees more akin to wind chime towers.
Platinum trunks doning metalic leaves.
Angelic music when brushed with their wings.
Out from all this, layers of various planes
seemingly worlds of their own, yet all of the same.
Once starving children and homeless ones too,
with comforts of home; endless tables of food.
One plane of great sports, children running free;
prosthetics and wheelchairs, now trophies and glee.
Another, Indian braves running with buffalo,
women laughing carefree with children in tow.
Serene planes of beaches and tropical breezes.
On none was found pain, lameness or diseases.
Thousands of planes, but my favorite to view;
families and the ancients with no need of adieu.
So euphoric, this sight, but there is more to tell,
as three glorious chimes of the great temple bell.
All froze still as beams of golden light
transported them to the temple in quiet.
The most beautiful prayers and songs arose.
From within the city; pure love aglow.
Three bells again and all were beamed out;
some to the same planes, some different routes.
I wanted so badly, to open the door
and be in this place forever more,
but the door was locked and I had no key,
then an angel turned and flew towards me.
Approaching the peephole, that is the moon,
It said, "Don't worry, you'll be here soon."
I have need of a key, I began to implore,
and it slipped a note neath the midnight door.
I unfolded the note; three lines within,
and three nails fell out; payment of sin.
The first line proclaimed, the door was faith.
The second; the beams are God's loving grace.
Overcome by peace as I read the third line.
Jesus is the way, the truth and the light,
and I remembered a scripture that so sweetly states;
"For by grace, through faith, are ye saved."
Copyright © Arlene Smith | Year Posted 2015
Here I sit amongst the long grasses and the reed,
in a solitary place, where my breath is freed,
on an Indian Summer's evening on the lake bed,
autumn has come, yet the warmth has not fled.
Blazing orange skies, are mirrored to reflect,
I cannot imagine a scene being any more perfect,
as I looked up, an unfallen leaf caught my gaze,
spotlighted in the sun's last golden rays.
I noticed this crimson leaf as it began to wave,
the end of a short life that I could not save,
then swept away suddenly by the wind's rake,
and ripples formed as it landed on the still lake.
The leaf was carried away and my eyes followed,
then drowned by the water's surface and swallowed,
windy fingertips tugged it from the branch to sever,
existing once, like today, and then was gone forever.
Note - This was my original idea for the poem "The leaf",
but it was revised for a contest. I just wanted to post both
versions of the poem.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2014
When Autumn veils my season's smile
and lingers in the air a while . . .
though Indian days be gold spun,
my summering will come undone.
Night's shadows fall more quickly now;
birds sooner too forsake their bough.
No tarrying for old friend Sun
when summering becomes undone.
Oh, warmth of Summer, leave me not.
Through Winter's frost I grow distraught.
The melancholy has begun;
my summering will come undone.
As Autumn veils my season's smile,
my summering will come undone.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
early dawn cracks the wispy air
open , wandering around viscous spaces
like fairy shadows caressing the edge
of sleep… and the days stretch longer,
taller than maple trees delicately rustling
the garnet of late Indian summer when
birds, orbits and urchins listen to
a single searching sun… when all else
is sprawled quiet, there comes this
certain fired imagination straying on
mouths of gentleness far beyond
nuptials of effervescent realms…
someone said morning becomes Electra,
that learning how to hear a pear or
grain unravel the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
unfurl its leaves far beyond unknowing a
heart’s need to be: the juice spills streams
waking new faces of time, bending the width
of life's rhyme through endless mystery...
a thousand times before and after, daybreak
and night twine... that in tints of all hues,
passing through fables of any season
is poetry's way of coming back to itself.
Justin Bordner's How Poetry Began Contest
by nette onclaud
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014
Indian summer. . .
a gathering of leaves dance
quietly to death
ONE Haiku Old or New with Seasonal word ANY SEASON - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Rick Parise
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2010
India (Original Poem)
I hear much joy in the music,
View elation in the dance
Feel happiness in the laughter,
Soulful spirit in poetic romance.
I feel love in the language
Swelling in my heart.
Reverence for God and Goddess
In beloved families far apart.
I love the customs and the people
As they celebrate each day
Living life to the fullest
In their honor I wish to pray
That I may learn to be as humble
As loving and as kind,
To be blessed by elder wisdom
In every senior that I find.
This is a gift to give my children
To open their sleepy little eyes.
To see the value in rejoicing,
To reach for stars up in the skies.
When they learn this knowledge
To listen well to the sages,
They will know of sacred secrets
Handed down through the ages.
India (New Poem)
Handed down through the ages,
India's Gods and Goddesses call
Out to me from sacred places.
I want to bathe in Ganges waters,
Be there when monsoons arrive,
View Holi's colors on happy faces.
I wish to absorb all the beauty,
Mix with all the friendly people
And sing in celebration's song.
I want to enjoy the festive music
And watch the dancers dancing,
I wish to truly feel that I belong.
I'd revere every God and Goddess,
Have respect for all Gods I know not.
I'd love to learn of Ganesha's power.
I want to meditate in floral gardens
Contemplate by reflective pools...
Connect my spirit to the Lotus flower.
I would take my small camera with me
And shoot all the sights and sounds,
Share my heart with natives blissfully.
I'd love to share in children's laughter.
Share my thoughts and culture too.
I'd treasure my time in India eternally.
Famous Last Line
March 9, 2016
Holi, the Festival of Colors. Holi is celebrated as a welcoming of Spring, and a celebration of the triumph of good over evil. What that translates to in action is an enthusiastic dropping of inhibitions, as people chase each other and playfully splash colorful paint, powder and water on each other. People also attend bonfires to commemorate the story of Prahlada.
Hindus consider the waters of the Ganga to be both pure and purifying. Nothing reclaims order from disorder more than the waters of the Ganga. Moving water, as in a river, is considered purifying in Hindu culture because it is thought to both absorb impurities and take them away. What the Ganga removes, however, is not necessarily physical dirt, but symbolic dirt; it wipes away the sins of the bather, not just of the present, but of a lifetime.
He is the Lord of success and destroyer of evils and obstacles. He is also worshipped as the god of education, knowledge, wisdom and wealth. In fact, Ganesha is one of the five prime Hindu deities (Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva and Durga being the other four) whose idolatry is glorified as thepanchayatana puja.
The Lotus, the national flower of India, is a symbol of supreme reality. Hindu religion and mythology portray goddess Saraswathi, the muse of learning, as being seated on a lotus flower. To the Indian psyche, the lotus is more than a flower – it represents both beauty and non-attachment. There is a saying that although it grows in mud, it smells of myrrh. Toru Dutt in her sonnet “The Lotus” addresses the flower as the “queenliest flower that blows.”
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2016
POPPIES & MUSHROOMS
I desire a beautiful sky.
One to inhale with my big brown eyes.
Fly like a kite,
under the midday light.
Join me in this lollipop fight.
Till we say Goodnight.
Let's sit on the floor Indian style.
Passing around the same smile.
Holding each other by the wing.
As we take a puff and sing,
a song about: Poppies and Mushrooms,
Lets hold hands and enjoy the fumes.
I rub my bare body with poison ivy.
A poisonous Vera, deep aloe skin deep
I enjoy the penetration under my earthly skin.
With the goodness of a sneeze that feels like a sin.
With Poppies and Mushrooms,
my hair I groom.
An inviolate flight on acid.
Skinny dipping in the calmness placid.
I want to touch that elephant in the sky.
Before the illusion vanishes before my eyes.
Pink clouds and fluffy marshmallows.
Purple kittens and rainbow shadows.
Liquid bamboo, and poppies too.
Cocoa mushrooms, to get rid of the flu.
Poppies and Mushrooms, in a jungle beat.
Down my legs, like a dog in rut.
Poppies and mushrooms, and a giant balloon.
Pop one for me, and act like a baboon.
Walk with me across this gingerbread bridge.
Let's use up all the cake in the fridge.
Graffiti and skittles,
While I sing "Hey Diddle Diddle."
Lets follow the unicorn, with green feet.
Poppies and Mushrooms ever so sweet.
Here Kitty Kitty, feel my heart pulse.
Hear me meow and tweet tweet tweet.
Kool-Aid and Hawaiian punch for lunch.
How about some orange Captain Crunch.
Poppies and Mushrooms, from the sky I fell.
Footsteps down the yellow belly tripping trail.
Skip to my Lou, it's time to swallow another pink pill.
And sing me this song, where all these illusions are real.
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2011
I asked to my father
Baba, What is life ?
He politely said to me, " Life is Duty . "
I asked to my mother
Maa, What is life ?
She said to me with smile, " Life is Responsibility . "
I asked to my teacher
Sir, What is life ?
He said to me with love, " Life is Education . "
I asked to my spiritual master
Gurujee, What is life ?
He said to me with confidence, " Life is Devotion . "
Today my son who reads in class nine
Babai, What is life ?
I have said to him, " Dear, You are my life . "
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
( Father means BABA, BABAI and Mother means MAA in Bengali language . Gurujjee means spiritual master in Indian society )
Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014
When I think of India, I think of dark eyed beauties,
their foreheads painted with decorative red dots,
and I see them moving deliciously in beautiful bright costumes
as bangles dangle from their slender wrists.
When I think of India, I think of a culture steeped in history and tradition:
folkloric music, myths, and dance, and the influence of the Hindu religion.
I visualize the rich and poor alike bathing themselves in a river called Ganges.
I see an olden time when mighty elephants, colorfully decorated,
carried men atop their backs on elegant elephant seats,
and I recall pictures in my geography studies of the white sacred cows
freely roaming the narrow streets of Delhi.
I recall a novel I read: Rudyard Kipling’s engrossing tale of a jungle boy
and also other novels depicting a clash of cultures
as the British imposed their rules on Indian society.
I think of current movies showing the seedy side of India
such as one named Slumdog Millionaire and a movie to contrast it,
the romantic Bollywood delight named JabTak Hai Jaan.
Furthermore, I recall the grace and good nature of the Indian people
depicted in a film called The Best Ever Exotic Marigold Hotel.
When I think of India, I think of the Taj Mahal, Kama Sutra, and curry,
and also I recall horrible stories of Bride burnings now banned and by contrast,
the good works of Mother Teresa, who labored there among the poor, and
I think of the man who is probably the most recognized by Americans
as a good and strong example of leadership: Mahatma Ghandi.
All these things are the sum of what I have learned about India in my lifetime.
But what do I really know of India?
What I have learned recently relates to poets I have come to know at this website
and who have shown me through their poetry and their communication with me,
a more personal side of the Indian people that I never used to know.
Through the poetry of Ravindra I have learned the love of an Indian for his heritage
and how he emulates his father‘s work through beautiful translations.
From poets like BL and Jag, I’ve learned more about
the deep and philosophical nature of the Indian poet!
Through great friendships with people like Kashinath, Yesha and Yasmin, and Guatami
I have come to learn about the actual personalities of dear Indian people
whose life experiences, struggles and desires are not so different from my own,
and also I am able to enjoy their eloquent words as they describe
their own emotions, passions, and love of nature through their poetry.
Perhaps their culture adds a flavoring to their words and phrases
that is a bit different from my own,
but in the end, we are all alike beneath the skin.
Whether from India or any other country, we are, all of us,
becoming a part of a global community
in which our differing backgrounds can be accepted
and even better - celebrated!
Thank you I say to all my poet friends whose words enrich my life,
but in particular, today I thank my friends from India,
for helping me to really see how beautiful you are
and to understand your country better through knowing YOU.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2013
Sometimes within the walls of today
We simply search for another way
To make this day all it should be
I must learn to live eternally
A blessing given or one took
I live my life inside a book
Each new day is another page
I sit in the circle and burn my sage
Asking Grandfather to help me see
Exactly what a true man should be
With the blood of an Indian and of a white
Life is most certainly a spiritual fight
Half of me hates how the other half-lives
The white man took all the Indian gives
Then the white man decided to take some more
Slaughtered the Indians from shore to shore
Brought an end to a beautiful way of life
“We will kill the man and rape the wife”
They called us heathens but don’t you know
Was the white man that had a heathen’s soul
Half and half, the blood of a breed
Poisoned by a white mans seed
It’s my Indian half I love the most
My white half is turning into a ghost
Through my veins flows the blood of a brave
Though I lived my life as my white halves slave
Jesus Christ, nailed to the cross for me
Now my Indian half enjoys living free
Though freedom is a frame of mind
In the circle of life it’s truth I find
With each new poem I’m able to see
A little bit deeper up inside of me
Which enables my soul to truly live
Making my heart strong enough to give
All the faith that is found in a seed
I reckon half and half, is good breed
Posted in respects to James Fraser
Copyright © Michael Jordan | Year Posted 2009
Description of The Funeral of Atala (Funérailles d'Atala or Atala au tombeau), 1808, Louvre
I sauntered through the Louvre, observing art.
One painting struck me for its quality
of sadness; I could see a young man’s heart
was clearly broken by a tragedy.
The man is Indian; he’s in a cave
with an old man who holds the shoulders of
a woman they’ll be putting in her grave.
The Indian is mourning for his love.
He’s sitting, clinging to her draped knees, and
though for me this image was unclear,
a crucifix is clutched inside her hand.
Outside upon a hill, a cross is near.
The artist was recalling the sad scene
of Atala, a woman who was mired
in mental conflict. She was torn between
religious vows and the one man she loved.
Although the heroine wears virgin white,
some sensuality is shown with grace.
The day is waning, and the sun’s last light
caresses her fair bosom and her face.
The focus is this woman, but my eyes
go to the half-nude Indian whose skin
is brown, in contrast to the girl who lies
dead by her own hand for fear she would sin!
The novel that explored Atala’s woe
inspired more than one painter in the time
romanticism had begun to grow,
but Girodet’s work of art for me is prime!
Written May 9, 2017 for the Celebration of Art Contest of Kim Rodrigues
Note: I can't find a French syllable counter, but English puts the artist's name Girodet at three syllables.
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2017
Indian summer lies within your autumn hazel eyes,
My velvet bloom vibrant now lost after your killing frost;
Love lingers in bereft fingers, I stroke your face in guise,
Once lustrous, amaranthine heart lies bleeding in exhaust.
My velvet bloom vibrant now lost after your killing frost,
Your chill withered russet my enchanted efflorescence;
Once lustrous, amaranthine heart lies bleeding in exhaust,
As you disperse in scarlet moonlighting vaporescence.
Your chill withered russet my enchanted efflorescence,
Blue breath exhaled... my cooling mist still hangs in our mid-air;
As you disperse in scarlet moonlighting vaporescence,
Your affair concupiscent more than my bemoan can bear.
Blue... Breath exhaled, my cooling mist still hangs in our mid-air,
My harvested heart-ache, my heart-break, my heart-feeling weep~
Your affair concupiscent more than my bemoan can bear,
Into all my tomorrows tears of my sorrow shall seep.
My harvested heart-ache, my heart-break, my heart-feeling weep,
Amaranth once fertile, frost-bitten, fading everyday;
Into all my tomorrows, tears of my sorrow shall seep
Despite your warmth, light of day and melting hoarfrost display.
Amaranth once fertile - frost-bitten - fading everyday,
Love lingers in bereft fingers, I stroke your face in guise
Despite your warmth, light of day and melting hoarfrost display,
Indian summer - lies..! Within your autumn hazel eyes.
~ 3rd Place~
Mid October Premiere Contest
Sponsor: Brian Strand
~ NA ~
Write Me A Pantoum Contest
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
Copyright © Susan Ashley | Year Posted 2017
Tiger in a Cage (a stab at men)
Like a caged tiger.
You do not know what is in my den?
There is no worse feeling than the way I pace back and forth repeatedly.
A headless collar is all you see.
The closer I get, the more you seem to pretend.
To you these stripes look more like dots.
As you, continue to hold my lines and strands in your hand.
You stroke my stripes as if they were a loft of dental floss.
An ORANGE all squishy and rot.
Rough and tough!
You cannot peel what you cannot feel.
You do not know me at all?
You trust me.
You lace me.
You cannot describe the buds.
You cannot feel my fingertips.
A taste of nothing out of your lips.
Indian BLACK streaks in my skin.
How did you manage to even get in?
We mount this unspeakable stability.
A man-eater swallowing her growl.
This hunger is piercing throughout my veins.
Hiding the powerful black star sapphire in my eyes.
Every move I plan ricochets.
A tiger, a tiger in her cage.
Only in your world, I am my own prey.
My wildness is rarely found above my skin.
Every day I wear this heavy coat, my stripes continue to sink in.
It is a solitary confinement when you are around.
You cannot see the black diamonds under this unbearable frown.
Dingy claws, tapping……
Natures dew bestows a toneless mixture of orange and black tattoo.
These stripes, belittle my self-esteem.
The moon flashes overlapped our taboo.
Never will you see a tigers gleam.
Spirituality waiting to rise above the trees.
It is my choice, to stand behind these unbreakable twigs.
Fertilizing like pollen under a blanket of bees.
Still the effects of your eclipse, bounce off my wall.
I am telling you!
You don't know me at all?
The roads these loads continue to grow.
Far ahead, I am the gravel under your toes.
Crouching like a Tiger hiding the way a dragon breathes.
You don't know how I feel!
I am a tiger in a cage please set me free!
"Breed to Breathe" by Napalam Death
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
This time I didn't need to remember what it was like to be a kid
This time I didn't need to memorize when all the fun have been .
This moment wasn't that moment of madness and responsibilities ,
this was a brief moment to live , I lived in my dream .
How I danced , there I danced with the flutter of a butterfly ,over and over again.
There I was , immersed in the body of a little brown eyed girl.
Dressed up neatly in a white collar shirt ,and a navy blue pinafore dress.
How I ran , I ran breathlessly in evergreen fields full of buds
that barely blossomed through the eyes of women , and men .
How I jumped , like a frog earning its freedom , doing my utmost to catch the sky,
to reach the soaring hand-made kite ,that kept moving far and high.
My left -hand never letting go of that special red balloon , it was mama's reward , that afternoon.
Each following morning, so hard to get out of bed ,but that only lasted till I saw Uncle Frans'hat.
How happy I was to sit on his lap ,, and listen to stories He read.
How happy I was , to lick early raindrops that ran fresh down my cheeks,
How different , from the once I feel when I'm out of my sleep.
What moments to preserve....There , on the back seat of papa's new second-hand car ,
Our chitty chitty bang bang , travelled so far.
There , me and my brother , our face against the wind,
Open mouths , Indian sounds , humming along , waiting for tree-birds to sing.
What a moment , of hide and seek, and musical chairs ,Of midnight mass and Christmas prayers .
I lived them all .... Splashes of waves , and buckets on sands ,
Autumn's foliage , picnics , with cousins and friends.
There I was , immersed in the body of a little girl
with long noichettes french -braids swaying in the breeze ,
Playing hopscotch, out in vacant cobbled streets.
This time I didn't need to remember what it was like to be a kid
This time I was there, in the dream , I have lived .
This time I tasted sweet honey before I 've been kissed
Before years cursed the pink of my innocent lips .
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2015
History will not record the bloated weight
Of this pious and bigoted race
Or count the fat and flaccid wealth
Of religions idolatry
Those pages have been scrubbed clean
By prosperous forgivingness
And the cruelty of established political dominion
Will not tally the bodies of the oppressed
To them, faith and belief are merely a weapon
A system of abusive control
And a means of power continuation
A dictatorial right to rule the population
History will not record the inheritance of opinion
But lay blind at the doors of massacre
The Aztec, The Aborigine, The North American Indian, The African Negro,
Pray in silence to The Church
Centuries written in blood and torture
For a message of verbiage and usage
Extracted and leeched from the poor and uneducated
Created the western dream
The long night of the witch hunt is not over
The Inquisition has saved us
With fake blood and wooden crosses
This elite of moral perspective shall save us all
We have paid the price in conscience
Superiority managed by white skinned indifference
Holy mother church has welcomed all
All into its iron embrace of slack jawed wonder
And what more despicable rule can there be
Than to dictate ones own spiritual journey
Spouted by the rote of political expediency
And the promise of heaven
Ingrained now this so called Christian ethic
And so much of the truth left distorted
Forgotten now are the ancient mystical secrets
Which united mankind to understanding
Idol of gold and crucifixion
Of cathedral and stained glass objectification
Gilt and holy water of sumptuous ritual
Of silken pope and luxurious self righteous invention
An aberration of human faith and belief
An unrepentant destroyer of “ Loves ” dream
The curse of The Christ as you continue to translate
And where the paupers fist crunches the dirt
Where dried and parched lips pray for rain
Where the desperate cry for a reason echoes
Where blood flows in feted anger
Where children scream in fear
Where hunger and despair debase and demean
Where there is no light
And in the dark only pain
If you wish to care for the souls of mankind
It is there with them
Is where you should be
Copyright © colin mitchell williams | Year Posted 2008
Pleasures of Moving on Moon
You have always charmed us by your beauty, O Moon,
Sometimes fascinating Heer and Ranjha*, and sometimes,
Mesmerizing Romeo and Juliet.
Sometimes you have spread your charms, on the monuments of Love,
Alluring the beauty of Taj*, in the full moon light of Purnamasi*
O, Moon how many faces of Love and Beauty you have,
When you stroll silently on a snow covered maintain,
The beauty and your grandeur becomes envy for the heaven.
For Poets and Writers you have immense stories and inspirations,
For Lovers you are more precious than gold and diamond,
For singers you are like the soul of their songs,
For Boatman’s, you are their sole companion of their silence and turbulence.
While watching you so intensely from earth,
I felt, as if I was wondering on the silver surface of you O, Moon,
Moving and feeling, no gush of wind,
No moisture of Rains and dryness of Sun,
No falling of leaves, in the season of Autumn,
No bending of rivers, flowing from mountains to oceans
No murmuring of birds while mating and chatting,
No change of seasons to engage my mind and heart,
Still I was fascinating to move on the silver surface of you, O Moon.
Walking on your surface was a strange experience for me O, dear Moon,
As I was trying to feel the unique pleasures of earth,
While moving on your silvr surface, O Moon.
Kanpur India 22nd November 2010
Soon I will post this as My Photo Poem with the Photograph of Moon on my Blog and on face
book, which I took on 22nd Nov. 2010
• Heer and Rangha. The Indian Lovers like Romeo and Juliet
• Purnamasi. The Day as per Indian calendar, when we can see the full Moon.
• Taj. Refers to the world famous Taj Mehal monument of Agra, India.
Copyright © Ravindra K Kapoor | Year Posted 2010
I'm a Catholic,You're a Muslim
I'm an Orthodox ,You're a Protestant
I'm a Hindhuist,You're a Buddhist
You're an Atheist,and I am a Mormon too.
You're an African,I'm American
You're an Asian,I'm a European
You're a Mexican, I'm an Indian
You're an Arab,I'm a Jew
But prior to all our distinct differences
I'm a Mother ,I'm a Father
I'm a Sister,I'm a Brother
I'm a Son,I am a Daughter
and I'm Human just like you.
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2016
They poured in, before the deluge
To surpass the natives in numbers
folks in their cribs -through-hearse stages,
trusting like kids, a burnished sky, blue-white,
a cocktail of the wrong and right,
and the mountains, inwardly grumbling ,
Snaking it up to the high spots of primeval Gods,
thro roads, loosely wrapping the giant, like gray ribbons,
sleeping in structures disputed by the rivers
on questions of right of way ,
they milled about, haggled and honeymooned,
peed and pilgrimaged, at Badri and Kedar,
belonging to the likes of Sankaras, long before
touts and tours stirred their sequestered worlds .
And the super giant suddenly fancied a good shower,
with unusually heavy cloudbursts , landslides
And down flowed
decades of filth with silt settling to ceiling heights.
The crowds, local and visiting, clung on to life like limpets
watching their kin, their life’s bearings, settings and links,
uprooted, tossed and broken,
Escapees from being buried in debris,
now cornered in hell, bereaved and battered,
famished and plundered, living and dying from moment to moment
on nothing, save air laced with fumes of rotting death
at the tipping points of sanity , pondering
their turn of fates;
development vis-a-vis disasters ;
disasters vis-à-vis puny mitigation measures
tragedies-in-the-making vis-a-vis remedies forsaken;
freak instances vis-à-vis climate changes.
They remain stranded , for days on end,
despite the IAF, army men and their copters
( not the other services or their detractors)
risking their lives on a huge rescuing effort.
The natives, rescued or not, stranded for life, though.
@24 jun 2013. By :S.Jagathsimhan Nair
* This is about the thousands of tourists and locals remaining stranded in the Himalayan heights for about a week now, with dwellings, roads and bridges washed away/ blocked by heavy rains , landslides and floods.
Sankara refers to Adi Sankara, the saint of the 8th Cy AD.
Badri and Kedar mean Badrinath and Kedarnath, two important places of pilgrimage in the Himalayan heights.
IAF : Indian Air Force
For Deb’s 'Referential' contest , referring to the loss engendered by the Himalayan geography which finds expression, different, though, in the metaphors of Kash's poem, 'My emotional geography', with ref to expressions like valley of pain, ocean of sorrow, tearful rivers,foggy mountains etc.
For SKAT's Epic-only contest.
Copyright © S.Jagathsimhan Nair | Year Posted 2013
On the land of miracles,
Took place a miracle,
Missile man of our country was born.
People's president he was known,
APJ Abdul kalam was his identity.
Paving a path for young generation,
In the field of science and technology.
He inspired young minds.
He is no more on this earth,
But his soul hasn't left his motherland.
Freedom, strength and development
Were his dreams.
The day he was born,
He dedicated the day to learners.
The spark in his eyes,
The smile on his face,
And the confidence in his attitude,
Inspires me and every indian.
I am proud to be an indian.
Copyright © AHALYA NAIR | Year Posted 2016
I read with greed John Master's books,
to Indian culture introduced.
I grew to love a distant land;
by her allure I was seduced.
To Indian culture introduced,
I felt the urge to go and see
the striking beauty of her face,
the charms bestowed abundantly.
I grew to love a distant land
where the traditions are held high,
religion, races, culture, tongues
are deep-ingrained - will never die.
By her allure I was seduced,
this vibrant country in the east.
I plan to take a closer look
and let my eyes in wonder feast.
Contest: Shall We Retourne
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
Copyright © Paul Callus | Year Posted 2015
I found it between freshly cut buttercups
and a cerulean sea
Splashed upon a canvas
of a painter' s fantasy .
I am colour blind , yet since I was a child
I could feel, I could taste, I could hear
I could smell ,all that I couldn't see .
And its green. It is so green to me.
I smell it through the brewing pot
and pouring of a morning Indian tea
I taste its sugar from the maple leaf
And its green , it is so green to me.
I feel its velvets on my neck's nape
from the early buds of Spring
I hear it through the sheep bells
grazing on the hills.
I see it 'neath the harvest moon
when they drink white wine and sing.
I am colour blind , yet since I was a child
I could feel , I could taste, , I could hear
I could smell ,all that I couldn't see,
And its green. It is so green to me.
This colour of serenity
Makes me one with who I am
It is in tales and genesis
of Eve and every man .
This nature where I roam through
Far from envy, wild and free
Far from the climbing ivy
that chokes society.
Between freshly cut buttercups
and a cerulean sea.
Its Splashed upon a canvas
of a painter's fantasy.
Beyond those blues and yellows
Is it green that I can see ?
Its verdant fields I sleep on
wherever I may be
P.S - Inspired by Silent One 's Green (Colours United Contest )
bur not for the contest.
Though I'm not colour blind, this was inspired by
someone close to me who is colourblind to green and brown.
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2016
Memories of autumn linger still
The pale sun loiters on the hill;
A prodigal year now grown old
Is gathering all her days of gold.
Flocks of birds now eager to go
We share the dream with footsteps slow;
We meet beneath the apple tree
Join hands in silent company.
We will not part love, oh not yet
Too soon the weary sun will set.
The crickets cease to sing their song
The gold and russet wilt away;
The crimson trees stayed too long
And all the sky is wet and grey.
We know at night the frost will fall
And scar the asters on the hill;
The golden rod and sumac all
Will feel the hand of winter's chill.
But love, it is not the time to part
I need to hold you near my heart;
Yesterday was such a golden smile
Today we might love awhile;
Till autumn dies and love forget
And we must leave, but dear not yet.
Copyright © elizabeth wesley | Year Posted 2011