Best Bonn Poems
Glass, a lid
Slipping, a curtain of purest water
Drop
Now fainting, waking and beating
Closer growing, armoury for an apparition
Dreaming of wings, but oh,
But oh
Trail, paper
Walls are covered and so I cover
Following observant
Back in archives of interwar
My sister stood, my shadow
Overbearing and eating me
Beating with a pulse
The cave is a womb
Rounded as a core
Living reaching further back
Eat
The mud and Eden
Slowly ice white
Breathing, you can see
The clingfilm
Growing like a bulb
A world of atoms
Crushed
Oh Daffodil,
The sun is shining under smog light
And over the echo we...
Interwar
How I have my reservations
That we are ever even out
And face to face
A solid
Cold
Brick wall
And I call you
Bonn and you call me
Dead Berlin
A gathering of
Correspondence
A scattering of
Dirty nothings.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Colours curdling, water washing every moron;
Out of us evil ever going and playing on
Land of character cherished by coloured lawn.
What a scene to see! Gracious glory gone
If you miss this mesmerizing festival upon
A folly. Foolish will be called such a conn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Holy played in school is highly pleasing crayon,
For Kinar, Aayushi, Kunal. Aryan or John.
Monorhyme has one colour, holi many micron.
Mital, Mitesh, Vaikhu, SIddhu, Saurabh are don.
This day even principal thinks to prevent throne
And join joy with teachers - see anxiety thrown.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Songs, screams; dance, D.J.; homage and hymn on;
This day with Holika heavy burdens and sins thrown.
Cruel Hiranyakashyapa was killed; glory was won.
Kunal, Arpita, Sandeep, Amit and Shreyas on lawn
Play water and colours with cool Pari’s scone
In Jalgaon, Agra, Kanpur, Karanja, Surat or Bonn.
Holi, a hearty enthusiastic festival in horizon
Hubert awash was a Josh for his Bonn,
he was in a toss at the ton and never knew his cons,
say today that was interest and wand, that he could only shoot his lawn-
he never needed but had all his own knots for the fawns.
Whether you are in Osaka or Tokyo,
the right thing to say is “arrigato”.
If you ever get stuck in Moscow,
“spassiba” will help you out somehow.
When you are in Mumbai or Hyderabad,
you can always say “dhanyavaad”
In Turkey along the Eurasian rim,
getting by is easy with “teshekkur ederim”
In Bonn or Berlin, in order to gain,
you can always do it with “danke schoen”.
If you are in Paris or Montreal,
just saying “merci” is saying it all.
When you are in Madrid or Caracas,
gratefulness is expressed as “muchas gracias”
If you are in either North or South Korea,
you can make friends by saying “komapsumnida”.
If you have a rather steep climb in Brazil,
“obrigado” will get you over the hill.
Wherever you go in the world today,
just remember that “thank you” is the thing to say.
we drove late afternoon
over the dark Rhein,
the sky fake with orange,
to Bonn : to a house with cool, emplty rooms,
white with words, dark with chords,
to an elegant Hammerflügel ;
for my father the end of a journey,
but the start of the sublime
( for A.F. Philibert)
Over square miles a unique surgeon
In the West African sub-region:
Clearly,the tower in their region;
Names of the other knives in dungeon...
"Daddy,will I ever be like John
Now and again in Germany's Bonn ?"
But surgeon is facing religion
And religion: "I'll defeat you, John:
For you,surely,coming with legion,
Which shall never fail to you bludgeon"
It's surgery for delivery
To The Church's Christ's needless mockery.
Smiling forever , caring me for nights ,
how can I forget my mother , who was all time apposite ,
Crooner thy lullabies' , thy anger quite meek ,
will thee come back , mother , when I seek .
Never I dream , but now I see ,
thy majestic shadows , which had flee ,
thy smile too laud , which provide remembrance a lot ,
remembrance of our almighty , praying for thy immortality .
Bonn voyage my mother , for beginning the journey of death ,
I could not feel thy feelings , the feelings of thy last breath ... ,
thinking and crying for thy disappearance , thy disappearance changed my eyes very Brut ,
thinking in the sense for thy journey , crying in the sense to know the journey route .
Oh mother , keeping me touch since the past nine months ,
the touch was painless for me , but painful for thee ,
it was thy soft hand , which , taught me to grunt ,
never I thought present condition of mine , for creation last a moment and then to flee .
Smiling forever , caring me for nights ,
how can I forget my mother , who was all time apposite ,
Crooner thy lullabies' , thy anger quite meek ,
will thee come back , mother , when I seek .
Never I dream , but now I see ,
thy majestic shadows , which had flee ,
thy smile was too laud , which provide remembrance a lot ,
remembrance of our almighty , praying for thy immortality .
Copyright 2014 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Poetic Lyrics By Thomas Lam Hsi
THERE IS ONLY ONE TRUE GOD...THE LORD GOD ALMIGHTY...WHO ALONE CAN
SAVE FROM Satan...who plays 'all' roles...the devil...the 'Lord Jesus'...
the 'Father'...the 'Holy Spirit'...all 'Other Gods'...and 'alien gods'...HE...THE
LORD JESUS CHRIST HIMSELF IS FULLY GOD AND MAN...AND HE ALONE...
IS THE ONLY WAY TO GOD THE FATHER...and to an Actual Heaven!
Big, blonde and dumb...where's the fun?
Heavy buckles and boots...vapes and shoots [photo-shoot, or Hawaiian slang for "what
the heck"]?
When the movie's done...dipping salsa to a golden sun?
Bonn or Rome...warping past the silver dome?
Earth girls are easy and crazy.
Big, blonde, blue-eyed...Guyz...YES!
Earth girls are easy and crazy.
Big, blonde, blue-eyed...Guyz...YES!
Tecky and smart...if it's money and hearts...you get THE TART.
Halos and smarts...if it's only a game...I'll PLAY LAME.
When the movie's done...dipping salsa to a golden sun?
Winston, Tiffany or Capri...party of TWO or THREE?
Tacos, dogs, s'ghetti...BLUE DIAMONDS...or simply ME?
Earth girls are easy and crazy.
Big, blonde, blue-eyed...Guyz...YES!
Earth girls are easy and crazy.
Big, blonde, blue-eyed...Guyz...YES!
Soft, silken-smooth and HEAVY!
My soul to burn...but it's A LEVY!
Tired...STICKY AND DONE...where's the FUN?
Bills...news and stamps...BABIES...and WET PANTS?
Earth girls are easy and crazy.
Big, blonde, blue-eyed...Guyz...YES!
Earth girls are easy and crazy.
Big, blonde, blue-eyed...Guyz...YES!
hors d'oeuvre norwegienne
bisques de normandy
canetons d'aylesbury
pudding au yorkshire
gateau foret noir
vin champagne
Bonn(sic) !
Hymn to an Art-o-matic Laundromat
by Michael R. Burch
after Richard Thomas Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer”
O, terrible-immaculate
ALL-cleansing godly Laundromat,
where cleanliness is next to Art
—a bright Kinkade (bought at K-Mart),
a Persian rug (made in Taiwan),
a Royal Bonn Clock (time zone Guam)—
embrace my ass in cushioned vinyl,
erase all marks: ****, v-g-nal,
penile, inkspot, red wine, dirt.
O, sterilize her skirt, my shirt,
my skidmarked briefs, her padded bra;
suds-away in your white maw
all filth, the day’s accumulation.
Make us pure by INUNDATION.
Published by The Oldie, where it was the winner of a poetry contest. Keywords/Tags: hymn, art, America, laundry, laundromat, washer, dryer, appliances, clean, cleaning, cleanliness, clothes, clothing, underwear, god, godly, godliness, water, baptism, inundation, sonnet, analogy
This poem was inspired by the incongruence of discovering "works of art" while doing laundry at a laundromat with coin-operated washers and dryers. I was reminded of the experience while reading Richard Moore’s “Hymn to an Automatic Washer.”
lies a hundred wars for God
without years doesn’t heat us up
peace on the screen ... cold guide
sign wall steps cycle
Berlin wars in the new
Bonn fights next moon dance ...!
beliefs signs things
right of goodness
gauche acronyms and ruins
it was down everything
SS center was dead
everything ... has its finis
german pumps hate already
USSR were cold war
napalm vietnam afternoon
save America alive
what news BBC have
can CIA FBI signal
century-ending conflicts
at last! ?
Rainbow alliance
On a barbed wire fence between Chile and Argentine
hangs thousands of plastic bags, some of the bags from top shops
London, New York, Paris and Bonn.
Here are Japanese, Swedish bags, Arabic bags, and occasionally
bags from North Korea.
The fence between the two countries is an international garbage
collector, it is also an eerily beautiful place like a sad rainbow
overshadowed by neon light.
There used to be skeletons here that also had broken bones
as dropped from planes; the corpses have been removed, but if
you are lucky you might find a skull or a thigh bone cleaned
By the wind; the plastic rattle drowns the call of the condor
Ludwig Beethoven baptised in Bonn
loved both music&song
Prolific was his second name
deafness never inhibited this game
One made of Bonn china, somehow, gets a great attraction,
In steel and glass and plastic and bronze... lo, how many forms!
There's a creative artistic beauty in each faction,
Indeed, the craftsmen, in mind and heart, have their unique norms...!
I had one made of glass, in sky blue, a few years ago,
I had saved it like an antique valuable for long;
One day, lo, an absent-minded carelessness I did show,
I dropped it and broke; how long had I regretted my wrong...!
Jugs I have, now, a few in brass, steel, and Bonn china,
I consider them precious and see to their protection;
Yet, when I hold any of these a thought like angina,
Enters my heart and digs out my old buried dejection...!
As Images of God, humans continue the creation,
A jug too, like other gifts, can bring inner elation...!!!
Rainbow alliance
On a barbed wire fence between Chile and Argentine
hangs thousands of plastic bags, some of the bags from top shops
London, New York, Paris, and Bonn.
Here are Japanese, Swedish bags, Arabic bags, and occasionally
bags from North Korea.
The fence between the two countries is an international garbage
collector, it is also an eerily beautiful place like a sad rainbow
overshadowed by neon light.
There used to be skeletons here that also had broken bones
as dropped from planes, the corpses have
been removed, but if
you are lucky you might find a skull or a thigh bone cleaned
by the wind, the plastic rattle drowns the call of the condor