Best Culture Poems

Ancient Warrior

I see the wrinkles in your suntanned brow,
You carried burdens then; you see them now.
You’ve heard the cries your people who in pain,
Have shed their tears two hundred years like rain. 

Your sad brown eyes, reflecting now the sky
I see the wings of eagles flying by
Beside you stands an Appaloosa mare
Her spirit one with you now over there.

You hear the drums, they bid you to come near,
Your spirit drawn the beats they ring so clear.
Song like prayers are chanted through the night,
Calling you come, and help them end their plight.  

You’ve heard sad cries and now stand at their side,
You join the prayers with both arms open wide,
United spirits sing until the dawn,
When in the fire’s flames a golden fawn.

Remembering a smile crosses your face,
When tribes were one with Mother Nature’s grace.
The lakes and streams flowing with waters clear,
Flow sadly now, the planet lives in fear.

The weightless feathers that adorn your head
Your tribes grey future weighed you down instead.
Now breathing deep you smell the winds of change
While here on earth your people rearrange.

Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
10.21.2014
Giorgio A.V. Contest 
Iambic Pentameter 
1st place

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

Lifes Simplicity Maintained

You were born in a specialist clinic
I was born at the front door of my house
we both came into this world and survived.
You’ve been eating foreign cuisines and expensive delicacies
I’ve been taking porridge and traditional soups
we both have grown and are a significant part of the society.

You go to school in Jeeps and exotic vehicles
I use public transport and finish it up with a walk
we both went to learning institutions and acquired knowledge.
You roll with the high and mighty and get a super model married
I’m surrounded by the middle class
and marries one never will be in Wikipedia
we both are active in the food chain and wonderfully living our lives.

You become a CEO or rather own a firm
I get employed by you to run your empire
we both sure need each other to function and drive.
Gold and Diamonds will decorate the casket of your funeral
mine may not even be worthy of a coffin, just a plain box
we’ll nevertheless be dead and our chapter closed without preference.

It is only a pathology when the eye gets larger than its socket,
comparison cuts the muscles of esteem and gives greed a new suit,
making simplicity a very complex attribute to attain
and a life full of complexities a better friend to existence.
Life is simple, we just make it complicated.
A civil servant wants to live at par with a tycoon
allowing his throat tie down the strength of his hands.

Every destination has different roads,
be it the highway or a rocky path.
Take the one within your speed limit,
the timing may show some reaching before or better than others
but the most important thing is, the destination reached
as achievement is decorated while life stay simple.

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015

Of Road Rage and the Poetrysoup Profanity Policy

As Joe was biking down the side of the road
He ran across a chap with a dearth of driving skills.  
Or more accurately, the driver almost ran over Joe; 
'Twas one of life’s unwanted thrills.

A spirited exchange ensued between them
About who was in the right.
But this being the delicate poetrysoup,
I’ll keep the language light:

“You fornicating chewer of masculine appendages,” 
Quoth the driver.  “What the fornicating inferno were you doing?”
Replied Joe, “Just following the traffic signs, 
you premenstrual hyena in need of screwing.”

He quipped, “You’re replete with fornicating doo-doo,
My  light was coitally green.”
Quoth Joe, “Alas, your light was not.
And your maternal unit stars in movies obscene.”

Said he, “A shower of gold, is what I’m told, 
May clarify your sight.”
Retorted Joe, “Stay in that car, spawn of Jar-Jar, 
or you’ll be seeing lots of lights.”

“Perhaps remove the telephone pole,” said he,
“From where you store your bowel.”
Quipped Joe, “So I could fire a methane cloud in your direction?”
Oh my, how the driver did howl.

The driver continued.  “I don’t give an airborne 
intimate encounter about you and your bike.”
One thing was abundantly clear,
This man Joe didn’t like.

Joe gave not a rodent’s backside
For this foul troll’s attitude.
Yet the driver felt inclined to continue
with his prattling so rude:

“Consume excrement and expire,
you maternally fornicating 
portion-of excrement consuming
rah-rah blah blah…” He continued bloviating.

Suggested Joe when he finished, “Might I refer you to a friend,
one you clearly need?”
He’s a cranio-proctologist, 
The best around, indeed.”

 “I invite you to  perform an antatomically 
challenging act of self-gratification,” quoth he.
“I ought to apply my foot to your tightly clad posterior
and then everyone will see.”

“While I’m good at riding bikes,” said Joe,
“Flexibility is not my strong suit.”
“So the contortionism is out, 
and I plan to continue my route.”

“And as far as threats go, 
I must say that I’m not very impressed.
I wouldn’t bet your Hollywood looks
on what I sure hope is a jest.”

“In matters of fitness, you clearly lag,” noted Joe.
Which is why you’re in the car, and I’m not.
Thus, I cordially invite you to make a bowel movement
or kindly get off the pot.”

Happily the driver understood the score.
Away he drove with a whine.
Turns out he had to rearrange a sock drawer.
“Too bad, “ thought Joe.  “He talked such a good line.”

Away Joe pedaled into the day,
Whistling a happy tune,
hoping not to encounter such a 
fornicating bowel movement show anytime soon.

3/2/16

Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016

Call Me Insensitive

You call me insensitive,
But I don't believe that's true;
Because, you see,
It's all about me.
It's not about you.

You say your opinion doesn’t matter,
That I’ve no respect for your point of view;
But I do if we agree,
Because it’s all about me.
It’s not about you.

You say I’ve no compassion,
No feelings for your troubles or your blues;
But none of us is issue free,
And mine are all about me;
But…not about you.

A time old adage, 
“To thine own self be true.”,
Is all about choices you see.
My choices are all about me,
And, certainly, not about you.

So, when its time to make your choices
You’ll understand and know it’s true; 
To decide what will or will not be,
Won’t be at all about me;
It will be all about you

But special moments confront each of us,
When what matters isn’t “Me”.
And while these moments are few,
They’re not about me, not about you.
For a time, it’s all about “We.”

Yes, “…no man is an island.”
Is a valid point of view;
But if it’s not about “We”, 
Then it’s all about me.
Sorry.  It’s not about you.

Copyright © Robert Candler | Year Posted 2014

Broken English

I love my broken English

Am in love with my broken English

Am honored to have two other languages

The ability to think from language to language is one that many don't experience 
The ability to bring vibes from one language to another is one, that many envy

Sometimes it's like a train, English flows easily before it gets to a halt
Sometimes it's a bus with many stops, some harsh, some dash, some flash
And some mistakenly whether car or train, crash 
Some like aeroplane, are up there in the air
Building their own castles
Creating unfamiliar words

Whether writing from kikuyu to English 
Or kikuyu to Swahili and then to English 
Or just writing from the little dash of English that I learnt from my English classes,
With poetry,I can still escape 
Whether in the veiled grammatical errors
        Or just like a volatile chameleon

Copyright © njeri hunjeri | Year Posted 2015

Well of Souls

How many souls live on the edge,
Between the gutter and the ledge?

A hopeless fear crawls in their gut,
Each day, another endless rut.

The moments pass profoundly slow
Sad, bitter winds are all that blow.

A man lay huddled near the bin
Hoping death will take him in.

Frozen tears, on wrinkled cheeks
Frostbitten ears, and shoes that leak.

His mind forgets the games of tag,
Old Crockett's hill, where down they'd slide.

A summer rain, the puddles deep
Out catchin' toads, to tame and keep.

His life began with dimpled cheeks,
Red tousled hair, and hide 'n seek.

A tough old Dad who tricked and teased
A pretty Mom who smiled with ease.

They had a farm with fields of hay
A few old hogs, and bills to pay.

One summer day, the sky turned black.
A howling wind brought down their shack.

Dad sold the hogs, and cut the hay.
The farm was lost, we drove away.

The next two years were grim and lean.
Dad broke his back, to feed us beans.

When winter came our food ran out.
We found old Dad hung by a rope.

Without poor Dad, no food or fire;
Mom took my hand, the day was dire.

The Sister's face looked mean and sour.
I thought of Mom most every hour.

They scrubbed my back until it bled.
cut off my hair, then I got fed.

'Twas many years before I left,
My Mom had died a tragic death.

Now all alone, I lived and slept.
I begged for food, and sometimes wept.

A life of days and endless woe,
Now time is dead, and death too slow.

As you walk by those 'homeless freaks'
Remember me, with dimpled cheeks.

Copyright © Kimberly Shaw | Year Posted 2014

THROUGH THE 80s

A time for many a part-time passion, like
the discarded  skin of  Esprit  jeans and low-hip  waistline
baring pierced navel with flavor of a chase on the run…
would he dare confess real love as the world tolled
for Lady Diana and Charles?

You with me… moon to sun, fire to burn our eyes…
I swing on an illusion and steal the time away,
rustling along a Mustang’s back seat, while
some 8-CD tract pleads, "Do you think I’m sexy,’’
dipping in steams of instant affection.

How deep-cheeked your thrills
like Indiana Jones , knocking me
off-balance: and I, a fool ignoring the pain 
that you may never Stand By Me,
never in blinks of thousand stars,
a recycled tune melting in the sand
now you’re just ozone’s hole...

I wrap the scenes along Route 25,
as bittersweet time passes by. Alone.


Kelly Deschler's Decades Contest
``Do You Think I'm Sexy 
and Stand By Me-- top 80s songs

Sunbonnet

She shuffled by our house, so slow and bent,
No second thought of where the lady went.
On her return, no one around to see.
A shaded path, she blended with the trees.

We children always giggled, as she passed.
A group emboldens others to harrass.
Our high pitched jeering from a hidden niche,
The frail, sunbonnet lady, we yelled "witch".

One day a fever kept me home from class.
I saw her weary shuffle down the path.
My over-active need to know convened.
I followed with excitement and unseen.

A house engulfed by weeds grown thick and tall,
As vines of every species claimed the walls.
Around the side, a window to peek in; 
A man in bed with twisted, throbbing limbs.
.
The lady rubbed a salve to ease his pain.
And hummed a long forgotten song's refrain.

I blurted all I'd seen to mom and dad.
He stood in shocked alert and mom grew sad.

How soon the path was plowed into a drive,
A grocer truck and red-light cops arrived.
I last recall a fancy bike, brand new.
Events seem blurred, with growing up to do.
.


Gene Bourne.
07-17-14




.

Copyright © Gene Bourne | Year Posted 2014

South Africa

Listen to the jazz instrumentals of Masekela,
as you take red wine outside a thatched
shelter in a beach in the Western Cape.

Enjoy a hearty meal of bobotie (meatloaf), 
chakalaka (a spicy vegetable relish),
tomato bredie (a lamb and tomato stew),
potbrood (pot bread), 
melktert ( dessert)......
and other forms of cuisine;
have a siesta in the canvas tents,
then you visit the misty mountains
of the Magoebaskloof.

To feel at one with nature,
visit Limpopo, and get lost in the awesomeness
of sighting elephants, lions, rhinos.....
You'll see baobab trees stretching their branches
to the red, setting sun;
get dazzled by the Limpopo river's majestic
flow to the Indian Ocean.

Introduce yourself to all kinds of dialects and people;
Africans, Dutch, Indians, and Malaysians.
Watch their traditional dances,
and listen to their folklore - it will remind you
we are from the same Womb; Earth.

See Nelson Mandela in people's smiles and way
of doing things in the cities, streets, and towns.

Listen to South Africa's unifying anthem,
as you take a ship back home......

Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2017

The Enchanted Pali

Let me pass under the tunnel of trees
While shrouded in mist in tropical breeze.
Let island mysteries slowly unfold
As customs remain from centuries old.

Let me rise up to the Pali so rare
As I feel it's strong winds lash my long hair.
Honor ancestral spirits that surround
This beautiful 'aina and sacred ground.

A place where spirits of dead still abide,
Where a battle took place and suicide.
A warning to those who visit at night,
You'll meet with oddities causing great fright.

Viewing stunning Kaneohe below
Where with fierce tenacity trade winds blow,
My view from Pali I'll never forget...
That Time, too fleeting, I'll ever regret.

© Connie Marcum Wong


Nuuanu Pali:
“This is the last major battle that Kamehameha fought. This united all of the islands other than Kaua‘i, and, from this point on, for the next 20-some odd years, there was peace, other than the preparation for the battle of Kaua‘i.” Kaua‘i ceded its sovereignty peacefully to Kamehameha in 1806, without that battle ever occurring.

Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2017

All Lives Matter

Fear is what they clothe them in.
Fear of losing their life because of one mistake.
Fear of losing their life because an officer is having 
a bad day.

Some say it's not racism;
"It's police brutality."
Whatever you call it, I can't 
help but ask "where is humanity?"

Mothers weeping because they're losing their sons.
Teaching them to fight back with silence
but that is no weapon compared to a gun.

Six feet under, leaving families to fight for justice
over their lives.
Societies getting tired of it all-
starting riots and constructing strikes.

How many more time will history repeat itself?
Or are we still writing [his]tory , using coverups
as help?

All lives matter despite of their race.
All lives matter despite their mistakes.

In times such as these justice will demand to be served.
No matter how chaotic, crazy, or obscured.

Life is a gift, one that we should all treasure.
Because all lives matter and we need to protect them;
no matter the measure.

Copyright © Amber Binford | Year Posted 2014

The Night Market

If you wait until the sun goes down,
a thousand suns will rise.
Artificial, bright, igniting
tangled clouds in smoggy skies,
and flooding dingy streets
with fluorescent streams of light
that carry waves of people,
cresting, crashing, clashing 
across mismatched sidewalks.
They speak in foreign tongues
that lick like wild flames
and burn with glowing strangeness
as cockroaches skulk and scurry
beneath makeshift stands
where pairs of busy hands
prepare the strangest foods,
from skewered squid and snakes
to crepes and pineapple cakes,
cubes of deep-fried tofu
and the freshest dragon fruit.
Watch them badger, hear them barter
over onyx rings and jade bangles
beside rose quartz beads that dangle
from scratched display cases.
The market throbs with energy,
a living entity that swallows me.
And when I think I've lost myself,
I focus on that giddy sound,
the universal language
that transcends all others.
They laugh, and I smile.

*Based on a night market I visited in Taiwan last year

Copyright © Heather Ober | Year Posted 2013

An Unshakable Identity

hospitality, peace and mutual respect; we’ve chosen
because the key to our prosperity is love, unity and cooperation
settlers now on the cheat as our true identity is kept frozen
but no matter what! We will reverse it with our landmark ordination

the threats against our heritage and culture may have risen
it has kept us unique, unshakable and uncompromising
though there are bastard judases in every dozen
the failure and exposure of their deeds are amusing

the buckles of our identity we will never loosen
no matter how the invader tries strategizing
or putting our inheritance into some sort of categorizing
No! is the answer, none of us will lose being a complete citizen

Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2015