Best Editorial Poems
A battlefront benefactress,
She has her fortress, a fortified Princess, inside the dungeon of distress,
Tiled with the bone chips of ingratitude colored in pigments of black bright & rugid red,
An arrowhead chandelier illuminated by wicked tears, wet with woe,
Everybody saw her wedding dress, they all knew the warfield wardrobe,
But how many cared to touch her sorrow gown, how it hung on those exhausted shoulders,
The lilac one piece she wore for private pain,
Gain gauged by perseverence of self defense, vengence on Victory's tombstone,
How many visit that ceremony, where love is isolated amidst jealousy's cackle,
Do any of them frown with sympathy for the debt of her crown,
For every jewel in the tierra there exists a bruise upon her beautiful body,
An assault levied by the 'learned', the rape of a writer wrought by the wretchedly wanton,
Honors earned ransomed by pitiful rivalry, kindness taken in the grip of disingenuous delight,
Some say her very name is a curse, an anethema from some God foresaken moon,
Poet Destroyer, 'Too much nerve, too much passion' they exclaim,
Its only natural for her ingrown throne to be a thorn
In the fingertip of the editorial 'elite',
They know we will bleed for her grace like the children of wild sport,
The Poet Destroyer shall not hurt us as educators of deformity do,
She will not impose false limits on our brows,
She will not strike our eyes with rotten ink,
And look now you vultures of vice, we are Legion,
We are Brothers and Sisters of the Quill, raise your sight and behold our Worshipful Queen,
She rests not long in the sanctuary of her inner star, here we are,
Leading the war march towards you with captured & dried quills
Of imposter poets lashed to her sheild of cauterized parchment
Imprinted with the blessings of all literary Titans who have warred before,
We step forward While chanting in crazed concentration,
Oh woe to you,
Victors of vanity, victims of sanity!!!
This composition has been made in honor of the Poet Destroyer, aka. Linda,
A beautiful woman, a guiding Light, a warrior of liberated and Divine Art.
J.A.B.
Math is great
At some point I could get.
How could I get rid
When it is definitely a need?
I prefer writing an editorial
Than solving a perfect trinomial.
Math is a trial,
Oh! This is crucial.
Math has magic,
But sometimes it's tragic.
Striving for Mathematics,
Optimistic in finding tactics.
When it reach high quantity,
It challenges brain's quality.
Favor with Property of Equality,
Struggling with Conditional Inequality.
Math is a distress,
But it is a need for success.
Sometimes it makes me cry,
But it doesn’t stop me to try.
Struggles are enough,
I now ought to laugh.
Need to be even,
Thinking of my favorite number seven.
Math is use everyday
Though I deny to say.
It makes my brain an aleph-null,
Yet it doesn't makes me dull.
Solving with optimistic
The problems in arithmetic.
Math I learned to love
With the help from above.
“Ink Artist Kat Von D Baptized, Leaves
The Macabre Behind”
“It’s never been clearer, there's a spiritual battle taking place” —Von D. Kat tossed materials that celebrated witchcraft and the occult: Tarot, books, her favorite dark chapeau. Trends go, or end in extreme measures. Sheep roam, following any shepherd. A spray of paint flies hither and yon from the needle of her ink gun.
Him fountain of eternal joy from
Where life is renewed,
Ageing and life to be drained out, exit
From the world is nigh,
When suddenly comes a call from him
Above, who regulates
The flow of life through cycles of many
Births and deaths, to stop.
Suddenly sounds the drum from sky for the
Second act of play,
Life really awakens, drooping life
Joyfully responds to the call;
The wintry night desolate soon turns
Into a joyous spring day,
Undoing death, His rhythm and dance
Rejuvenates life force.
The flow of life from star to star
Follows the rhythm of his dance,
Freed from the confinement of matters
Th'Earth finds salvation;
With multitudinous fruits and grains and
Flowers of myriad hues
Her baskets of seasons are filled to the
Till and brim and all.
Thus she attains the fulfillment at the
Touch of his dancing feet,
The flow of life gushes up from death
Following incessantly
The pattern of his rhythm and dance, to the
Tune of his golden flute;
In the tornado of this violent dance,
All that is withered falls.
The triumphal arch of life is erected
Midst the joyful tunes,
And the journey of this spring meanders
Towards the fountain again.
This poem was originally written in Bengali Language by Rabeendranath Tagore. Its Bengali Title was Udbodhan. It was then translated into English by Mr. Rabeendranath Choudhury who expressed his wish that somebody from some other generation may attempt the rest so that all the English-speaking people may enjoy India's Pride. And here it is, slightly edited and recast in the true poetic form by P.S. Remesh Chandran, Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services, kindly visit http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/
Calls for resignation in cities
When press powers overlay budget of objective
Journalism
Speaking for others illustrates division wrong
Pilot project cost the city $287 per ride given
City Councilman Bill Miranda speaks to the driver of the city's trolley before boarding Monday. Perry Smith/The Signal
The employment obstruction of causeway
Is debilitating to finance language
In America
These root answers create pause in print
To retract office and improve democracy growth
Term limits aren't viable excerpts
No age allows frequency in representation
Open market Economics allows applications
Trickle Down Tips
Mathematically stated,
Budget given from total gdp
Allotted and zeroed burden
Shortfall stated mathematically,
Citizen and journalism benefit of?
Concert opinion
In no boycott
All are conveniegned
The arrogant treasure is slushed
In life styling the outgoing fund phrases
Those whom capitalize
remove civil liberties
This is lobby, page, reception, speculation
Book of retraction for new
Journalist objective argument
In dissection of
Insolvent democracy per acre or
Hectare
The statement of cost
Is evidence over budget allowance
This is corruption
Term slush
Fund not empty
Being spent in spiral
Loss of life as replaced in numerical
Press campaign powers
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This Concludes Lesson 1
Plagiarism and Capitalism
Verse As Boycott
I have been away for a while now, this is because I was busy working towards the accomplishment of my novel, titled "Shoeless Night." It's a true life story, and it is just 6 months and has sold over 1500 copies. If you need a copy please order through this link: http://www.kaymu.com.ng/shoeless-night-by-oluwafemi-oloidi-239297.html
Missed you all, greatly. Thanks and God bless.
About the book:
A group of young men, bustling with youthful exuberance, are unjustly arrested and detained by the Police in the city of Port Harcourt. None of them knew what was at stake until the Police van landed at her icy headquarters and everything in the world of these young men changed.
Shoeless Night tells the horror of young educated Nigerians: most especially Femi who would be the first out of the survivors to express his anger and frustration for the terror meted on him and his friends by an insane authority. The struggle between light and darkness, education and stark illiteracy; love and lust for power, corruption at its highest peak and self affliction are established in this timeless piece.
Praise for the book:
"The book holds a lot of promise for young Oloidi. I am particularly taken by the profundity of his aphorisms.
HIS VISION IS CLEAR!
HIS MISSION IS CLEARER STILL"
-Chief Pete.S.Edochie (M.O.C.), Actor. ************************************
"Exceptionally written, I enjoyed what I read, very much. It's a nice window into Nigerian life, and it's filled with good amount of suspense and mystery. Great book!"
-Kim Gooden, Glass Key Editorial, USA. ************************************
When I appear there Nature seems to
Dance and dance and dance,
When I disappear she is prone to
Weep and weep and weep.
Withdraws all clouds from sky to set a
Splendid scenery,
So that me rising from the river
Afresh may there espy.
Whether it sun or shower or snow or
Storm, when I arise
To set my arms, the setting Sun
Certainly will be there.
Women who go to the river for bathing
Choose my choicy time,
So that there they may bathe in warm and
Yellow sunshine time.
Now here a plant blossoms and blooms and
Soon another there,
Here Spring is reappearing, with her
Bring all beauties back.
Nature is dancing with her rhythmic
Steps and divine smile,
Why can't I row a boat here swaying
To and fro on waves?
The valleys wear their flowery carpets,
And the mountains are
Once again clad in colours, such this
Sylvan scene is set.
White cranes are there always on serene
Haunted islets sit,
Or stand by whiter cows there grazing
O'er the lushy green.
Suppose some Beauty glance and dance in
This wild atmosphere,
Then surely that's a dance to see, when
Mother Nature dance.
So Nature takes the pen out of my
Hands and writes for me,
May that there me, the clouds and cranes and
Cows and waves witness.
On cloudy days, practically there will be no sun to see. But it was my insistence that when I rise up after bathing in the river and look up to the sky, the sun should be there in the western horizon for me to worship. If it is a heavy raining day, I will select the time to go to the river according to when the rain will have a possibility of abating. Even on the heaviest raining days in the east, nature is benevolent enough to uncover sun at least for a few seconds. I will select this time to rise up from the river with my eyes closed and fervently wishing for father sun to be there when I open my eyes. With closed eyes when we look westward, standing river fresh, I don't know what makes it happen but the sun will always be there though sometimes be for only a few seconds. It is like this life-giver listens to fervent wishes of his off-springs and grants them.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services, kindly visit http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/
Ages there are in which the ration'l man
And th'intuitive stand side by side, the one
In fear of intuition, or scorn for abstraction;
Irrational one, the other inartistic.
They both desire to rule over their life,
Unreal or real, counting life to be.
Prudence, foresight and regularity,
The means with which one meets needs principal.
One o'erjoyed hero disregards these needs,
Counts life as beauty and an illusion.
As in the 'case in ancient Greece, th'intuitive,
Handles his weapons authoritatively,
Victoriously than his opponent, and
Establishes art's mastery over life.
All utensils we use in daily life,
Were made from art, not from our pressing needs.
Houses, our clothes, our clay jugs, all them were
Intended to express exalted joy.
Guided by abstractions and concepts, we
Succeeds in warding off our misfortunes,
Without ever gaining any happiness;
So that's the case the ration'l man's life is.
Th'intuitive man, aim freedom from his pain,
Standing a-firm amidst his culture's frame,
Reaps cheer, illumination and redemption.
Defense against misfortunes, he obtains.
I was once advised to read Nietzsche's 'On Truth And Lies In A Non-moral Sense.'I do not read Nietzsche; I sing it. I sing 'On Truth And Lies In A Non-moral Sense' this way. I am sad to observe that Nietzsche did not write it this way but in his eloquent flowing prose. Unfortunately, when I look at such prose and skim content, lines appear this way to me.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services, kindly visit http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/
Twas twiglo, and the snellish whidgers did sprowl and danzal in the warsh; all wafflie were the paridgers, and the gromb purtles sharsh. Prudalertating titillations the Gibbercrocky, my suthion The maws that nonce the tentlers that bonce Prudalertating titillations the Ardard bird, shewthion Foulishly speaking folklers such jocularonce He took his schwervo quill in hand: Eoness chrono the foemaxisis whom he sought so he rested by the editorial tree and stood awhile in fool killer thought and as in barblish thought still standing The Gibbercrocky, eyeing fierily came fiendishly through the critique trees and verbaled as is it came neigherly No, you! No, you! through and through The verbal blade went snacking-snickering! He left it dead, and with its head He went galloping and attacking. Thou -The has slain this son of mine! Holding in my arms, the shining boy What a fabulous day! Hoorah! Hooray! Cheering and snorting in his joy. Twas twiglo, and the snellish whidgers did sprowl and danzal in the warsh ; all wafflie were the paridgers, and the gromb purtles sharsh.
Today I had a strange experience,
Not in this group but in another group.
‘Poetry and Lit'rature' it is not,
In ‘Written or Revealed Poetry' thread.
Asked, have I written poems in my life?
I found it fit to answer it this way:
I'm writing this in reply to a miss,
I have never written poems in my life.
Have wondered where these poems all come from,
From human intellect or nature's store,
To be picked up at moments of revelation;
Or synthesized in rotten human brain!
I was inspired to write these wicked lines,
By those whose verses written were in sand:
Let us debate poetry in poems,
I hope she'll someday answer me in kind.
I 'am not doing anything again,
But asking questions all have answers for.
I have my answers, you can have yours,
This not an illiterate arena,
Where someone asks questions and another from,
Some academic circle answers them.
Some anxious are, to questions throw around,
Some eagerly waits there to answer them;
This not such school or college where one can,
En'tertain answers not from others too.
I know I'm Alexander Pope's close kin,
I stop here, to read Temple of Fame again.
I regularly take part in discussions in a famous social site of experts and writes in two special groups Poetry and Literature and Language, Literature & Criticism. A discussion on ‘Whether Poetry Has To Keep Form' became heated and I had to remain at the receiving end of severe but very polished criticism for some of my view points insisting on form for poetry.
At last I was asked, ‘You do not seem to have understood the mechanics of poetry like many of us; have you ever read a poem or at least try to write one'? I decided to write my reply in the poetical form and invited the others to respond in the like manner and continue the discussion on poetry. In my native land, in Malayalam literature, there has been a long history of poets writing letters to each other in the poetical form, creating a rich branch of literature in itself. In truth, almost all Indian languages had this kind of a branch of literature, and it had become an interesting and rich feature of Indian literature. I replied as shown here.
A Poem By P.S.Remesh Chandran. Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books. Trivandrum.
Read more about our views on poetry and about our various poetry editorial services in http://poetryeditservice.blogspot.in/
Exclusively For You
Have you felt like God sent you a poem before
In a form and with words no one will ignore
People feel as if this poem was written for
From me won't mind receiving many more.
Poems came straight from my heart and me
Don't care how good or better they may be
From God each one was revealed to my mind
And are never insulting or of a naughty kind.
About my poems you may have much to say
I will only accept criticism in a positive way
While a poem do continue to write another
Not worrying whether they are worse or better.
Maybe at Senior Center my poems may be read
Or as an editorial to Brunswick Beacon be fed
And also libraries who are lovers' of literature
My greatest hope is mine will always endure.
In God, will find myself continually abiding
Who to me is my bearer of each glad tiding
And not afraid of where criticism came from
Or how bad my guitar I pick, play and strum.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
RiverSea Plantation
Bolivia, NC
Your 'exclusive' story is dying
~ Time to send wild rumors flying
I met Elizabeth
during my flirtation with English Literature in 1963.
Another lesbian,
pretty blonde with
soft hands and beautiful legs.
I used to pick up Elizabeth
at the counselling center
where she was trying to be cured.
When the university found her out
they hinged expulsion on her success.
I fell passionately
in love with Elizabeth
with all my post adolescent yearning,
the feel and the look of her.
She allowed me her company
and the freedom to dream.
Her father owned an
automobile dealership in Baltimore.
Well-to-do. I could never meet their expectations.
Part of a disguise for her parents,
she knew I wasn't very good at it.
I followed Elizabeth
doggedly and drove her
where she wanted to go.
When she looked for a job
after she left college,
I drove her from office to office.
An editorial job in a small business magazine,
I was glad when she came out beaming.
Elizabeth had been interviewed by love,
She and the matronly magazine owner
immediately set up housekeeping together.
I could have been a friend to both but I melted.
Elizabeth never wrote me letters.
On Myself Get a Grip
When on myself I must get a grip
To certain pages in Bible will flip
Read dearly and in heart remain
In God words are so much gain.
More and more effort I always took
And ended up writing a whole book
Of poems similar to this very one
Am so proud when they were done.
God into my mind has often filtrated
He welcomed me and then educated
Each part of my eager body and soul
Always having been within His control.
Why should anyone write an editorial
Appearing controlling and dictatorial
When God always will be available
Write more poems make you able.
James Mysterious Serious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
TwentyFabelThree
TwentyFabelThree
Viewpoint Of The Fish
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Invariably life is surmounted and over come with obstacles designed to amuse
the abusers among the men the users of the clay to mold the old and make them
pay for unimagined hurts inflicted by society when for all the world to see the hurt
inscribed on them my enemy is nill and voided null and jointed separately
intended to become a monument of mediocre missing intentions faltering
commotions ending in so much incidental indentations of the misery of
man. "Well-informed people know it is impossible to transmit the voice over
wires and that were it possible to do so, the thing would be of no practical
value." - Editorial in the Boston Post (1865) This has always been attributed to
Thomas Alva Edison what he Rally said was this “To invent, you need a good
imagination and a pile of junk.” Referring of course to the poetry list of the
CharlaxAndroidSevenOne. The small boy was angry at us the fishermen we two
were men and strong and using bits and pieces of the little ones to catch some
larger for the skillet to add to beans we needed FISH and not just minnows we
could eat. “The fish feel pain” is what the boy said “just like humans do.” “NO”
both the eye and my friend agreed “they do not feel the same as you as eye as
we.” My friend became morose and actually tossed his minnows back and eye
grabbed all my pieces of the fish that eye was using just for bait and tossed as
far into the pond as fish could fly away from me the boy was not so easily undone
and mollified he wept and my friend tried to help him to get over it and frowning
eye was sorry for the day and beans we ate and beans we stayed and then eye
dared to make the complaint. “BOY is crazy we need to eat.” If you want to add to
this meal old man just go to the field and gather up some green onions eye have
plantered them in haste but they are long enough for yew to eat today. Hurriedly
eye rushed between the raindrops to get at the vegetables and then we
smashed the beans and made them into refried. The onions we ate as aside
dish was full of skillet mess
wait
my fabels is long but iff ewe love mee ewe will go now to part two