Best Etiquettes Poems
( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands, a
feather from the pea-cock’s tail )
Volga - 1
there might have been some provocation
on the part of the rat’s bible
it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush
the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less
how much is it necessary now
to murder the blue-hue with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream
would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market
before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles
Volga - 2
the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems
as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of the blue and yellow pyramid
and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls
how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board
Volga – 3
the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it
if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night
all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down
so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes
so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning
By evening five we started ,
Our christmas shopping activities.
My wife on the lead, her purse full.
Me appreciating her choices elegantly;
Kevin, Andrea supporting my task ,
Our activities ended by nine.
tired we, wanted to sit and relax,
“How about a cool drink? “, my wife.
“Yes, Yes, we should “, I replied.
We walked in to a hotel, lights dim.
Seated we happily, bearer so quick ,
“Four royal falooda “, my wife.
“Da a jungle story”, my children
At last, I got a lead role to play, I thought .
“You know nothing to make these kids laugh”, my wife,
She started narrating a jungle story with expressions!
my children started listening, I too!
Royal falooda came.
I asked bearer not to disturb.
We got in to our world,
My wife,” Once upon a time a fox and a stork lived in a jungle”.
I said, “might be near a lake”
“Yes, yes”, my wife.
“They were good friends. But the fox was very selfish”, my wife.
“Could be like me”, I said.
“Yes,yes”, my wife.
My wife, “One day he thought of a plan to tease the stork”.
“Could be like you”, I said.
“Shut up Da”, my daughter.
“The fox invited the stork for lunch”, my wife.
“I know this story”, screamed my son!
“Go ahead, go ahead”, my daughter.
“The stork accepted his invitation happily-
and reached on time for lunch”, my wife.
“Poor stork”, I said.
“Now the fox played a trick and presented -
food in a very shallow plate”, my wife.
“Poor stork”, I said.
My wife, “The fox finished his food in no time but-
the stork was not able to have his food at all”.
“Poor stork”, I said.
my son started laughing noisily!
My daughter too joined him.
I struggled badly to appease them.
My son said, “Da, I too couldn’t have my falooda at all”.
we were offered a small plastic spoon!
falooda was in a narrow tall cup!
We know not, but we were struggling
I laughed at my wife. She was awe struck!
I said coolly, “I never follow etiquettes",
I threw the spoon and drank the whole falooda!
My children followed me.
My wife threw the spoon; screamed, “Idiot”
She was firing the bearer.
I was laughing silently.
Nowadays people have lost sense!
written on 15-12-2013 for the contest "Any poem #5" by Poet Destroyer A.
When I was a child along with my cousins we listen to heroic tales about our ancestors and in someway the mill was always mentioned. So we went to discover these EPIC Historic site. A glance of paradise The All Heaven -we were in heaven- As we start slopping down, and there's no heaven without snakes, lizards, all kind of reptiles endangered plants, birds of prey insects and sweet nature fruits (our only recommendation for the tour), scared till the bone we easy pass and then the Oasis: grapes all kind of apples, strawberries, oranges and what we were looking for coffee, yes Coffee our faith ( café fé Fé before praying WE drink coffee) and Tia Kindness serve cake port-wine conversation more coffee, fruits, more coffee and Uncle Fell Good BE Healthy preparing our bags with all the mentioned plus corn (a scream "please came back before going" ) and all the pluses associated with having a good time. After 5 hours (10 min) the oldest explorer Mario preoccupied, seeing vultures spectres and feeling worms crawling and I likewise after all it's 5 PM(+ 4 more summer day hours), We decided to leave forgetting all the etiquettes basic Inc. that will be solved in church with lot's of French style kisses(my cousins were born in France and the all village has 33 and 75 car plates)
Uphill and with all the Saints helping but we, as saints had only the help from the animal world it took me 15 minutes to get to Heavens View,
Than worried about my family I was feeling like Colombo or Saint Paul,
Alone not knowing where I was or birth place/date and The End was coming tormentors beatings a massacre we all being swallow alive by Komodo Dragons and for an entire hour Hallucinations Seizures almost passing out At Least My Cousins with morbid faces one hurt injured by thorns and all pricked by mosquitoes (they are always the ones to blame), happiness crying and relieve and a promise not to ever return -the next 48 hour was ever.
To Brunet Luiz Baby Tummy (Cuzz Cousin)
There are all sorts of pupils in my class
Class management is becoming a nightmare each day
There is Shakespeare in my class
When asked questions he talks in riddles and proverbs
I have Ronaldo in the front seat
Once in class he kicks dusters and chalk all over the room
Galileo cannot be motivated
At the back of class he is all the time dreaming about stars
Michelangelo is never amused
As others are writing, he is busy painting and drawing images
Socrates has puzzled me
In tests he asks floods of hair raising questions- not answering
Oprah Winfrey has caused me sleepless nights
In class she is all the time dramatic in all responses to tasks
Karl Marx is ever on the move
Class to class he moves to ignite revolution against rich pupils
Mother Teresa is an enigma
While in class she is busy to praying and meditating
But there is one pupil who knows not his names
To answer simple arithmetic he runs all over school looking for calculator
These prodigal pupils in my class
Have sacrificed my professional etiquettes on the cross of incompetence
When a tree dries
It becomes like a plea
Of a mannerless woman.
Roots feed and sustain
The entire tree and branches;
And its leaves, long or short.
Such a dry tree
Stands alive while dead;
Its roots are uprooted.
The entire tree becomes lifeless
Its branches have dried up
And its leaves fall down.
Such is a dry tree
So will children born
On a rootless woman
For it germinated carelessly;
It lacked good care and watering,
While it was sprouting.
Lack of good sap in roots
Dries the bark and the branches
Such is a damaged childhood
For basic etiquettes missed.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
After a long discussing
With
Emily
Spiced with
Empirical
Etiquettes
She said,
“Send me something
For the sake of friendship.”
The time I got
Home
I opened the
Oxford
Dictionary
To clear the 8 words up
For fairness
I paged
96 pages
Of WOMAN SPYCHOLOGY,
71 pages
Of
WOMAN SPIRITUALITY,
SEX, AND RELATIONSHIP
Hell!
I did not find
Something that
Looks like
“for the sake of friendship”!
In this time
Of Ebay,
pop-ups,
sex and the city,
and
In this dark time
Of religion
And the apocalypse
Is this a
New gene discovery
Put on the first
Page
Of a
Misfortunate
Local
News paper
Or
A new kind
Of self serve
Advertisement
"Apologizing never means you are right and the other person is wrong, it means you value the relationship more than your ego."
Believe me or not, a genuine sorry has those healing powers which can cure the wounds of even a bleeding heart.
So if you've hurted someone intentionally or unintentionally...just go and say a sorry. It won't take much but would give much more than you believe.
Even if you think you have not done anything, but know somewhere someone feels hurt because of you...try say it once...it might turn the things going wrong right.
A sorry is not just a word to try sort out the things but an inner peace...for you've told the person he/she means something and you to want to make a move.
Sorry....
One of the three basic words,
Part of etiquettes for lifetime,
A big and necessary word,
Which change its meaning,
Person to person & time to time.
I say sorry,
When I know I made a mistake,
To help me control the situation,
And avoid things to get worsen.
I say sorry,
When I realize I hurted someone,
To tell them my ego is not big,
And the relation is more important.
I say sorry,
When I understand that's only required,
To heal the pain of trembled heart,
And to endeavor for feel good factor.
I say sorry
Even if it's not required
To satisfy my guilty consciences
And break the silences.
But at times...
I don't say sorry,
As it proves my weakness,
Which will choke me to death,
If I tried swallow my pride.
I don't say sorry,
Even if my silence hurt someone,
Badly enough to leave a wound,
That will never let fill the time.
I don't say sorry,
Even when the time is right,
To just let go with the flow,
Till situations make themselves right.
But at any moment,
When my heart ponders,
I settle down to take a breath,
And look at the actions,
To evaluate the meaning,
Of every said and unsaid sorry,
That can peace the past,
Ease the present,
And help the future.
I hate colons,
Semi-colons,
Commas,
All the dots,
The street’s dashed and bold lines
The formal and informal
Business and love letters,
And what worsens my stomach pain,
The civilized patterns,
Motifs,
And jokes and dilemmas.
I hate it all
I hate to list,
Lay down,
Lay out,
All the focused and structured
Feelings,
And etiquettes.
I hate this inventory of
What I like
And what I do not like.
I like to vomit them all;
Like a rusted wood suitcase
Is vomiting its rusted nails.
I do not like to face you
Eileen;
Until I empty
All my guts
From the rust
And the antic puppets,
Heroes, and clowns
I have been storing
Since ancient times,
Since the time my first ancestor
Stood up
And walked through the cold
And warm lands.
I will not promise you
Eileen …
Because, you never did
Or you may not be there
Waiting
For me.
For a fancy commitment.
I hate to be prized,
Competition,
Waiting for a reward,
Fake smiles, and
Boredom
Are my worst enemies.
I like to earn you
with my own sweat.
I have to stay away
Somewhere
On the darkest spot of the sun
Anywhere!
It does not matter!
I have to stay away
From the language you speak,
Your perfect grammar,
Your perfect dress,
Your perfect town,
Your perfect healthy food,
Your compulsive food,
And your anxious thoughts
And mood.
I need to breathe first
So I can
Like you first
And then up…
Up …
Love you again.
I would move mountains for all the working mothers:
To untangle our communities and have someone see their true colors.
To stop mothers from carrying the brunt of communal dysfunction,
To guide a little cultural deconstruction,
To redirect the debilitating parental judgment,
To provide more support from the government,
To end the overstimulated etiquettes that have always been known,
To deconstruct those parenting standards we’ve outgrown,
To assist with the impossible parenting choices,
To hear these working mothers' voices.
To help homes stay financially viable,
To create childcare that is reliable,
To become a work-life balance advocate,
To build postpartum support that's adequate,
To support the countless and endless asks,
To end the pressure of the myriad of household tasks.
To stop being accustomed to survival mode.
It's time to start enjoying the motherly road,
Because the weight of being someone’s everything is as heavy as it is light,
Moving Mountains for them seems right.
The rains speak to me
Let the torrents wash along
Questions unasked
Sometimes
The words of the Old Man ring
Constant
Let the mountains speak
Let the winds howl
Timidly, I lap at waters
Tamed savages sip savagely from behind
Cages made of glass
Etiquettes and bestiality
Woven into
Golden urns
Whose contents are black ashes!
Too many questions
Came to my mind,
And rushed against my veins
Like ocean’s bubbles
Surfacing with hopes
To catch the last tropical rain.
Why is love not for everyone?
Like the sunshine reaching
All beings
Like the sea’s waves,
Reaching all virgin shores
Why is love not like
Water,
Bread,
salt,
spices,
Wine,
And perfumes.
Why is love not like
An infant water stream
With a big dream;
Comes from a titan desert to reach a big lake
Like a cloud and rain
Like grass and flowers
For everyone?
I thought
It is for all
Human being
With no exception
No etiquettes
No protocols
Or political debates
Why is it not possible
To have a natural love
Like a red rose
Rising up from
The sand
Why can love not
Grow up naturally
Over
Our chests,
Our hands,
Our legs,
Our backs,
And our heads
Like our
Black,
Soft,
Yellow,
Long,
Short
And curly hair?
Why is love not
given with our
birth certificate
As a second Personal ID?
Why love is not
A necessity
Like poetry?
Free your lips
From the daily etiquettes
And the charm of ancient veils
Do not run away
No one runs after drawing ones fate
Did you ever see
The sea running away from its tides
And hiding behind the shores.
Take off your veil
And your rings
And the Indian henna
You may not need them
Love journey is like
Crossing the ocean
With a rebellion young boat
And with a little water.
Show your feeling face
No need for hate
Hung it against the wall
Like a Victorian painting
Or an African lion scull
Convert your hate
Into a roman wine
Or a Chinese ink
To use later to write a future language
Plan for new fates
Life is held between your hungry lips
And your tattooed eyebrow.
I nurse a dream of being a poet
Writing like Frosts, Shakespeares and Poes
Yet each glance at old works of poets
Sees my tall dream standing on its toe
Reading the lines so old and new
I marvel at arts which sweet words paint
How so subtle their sharp curves hue
Fair etiquettes on a soulful chant
I stand before the picture of my dream
Watching its shadow meet the face of the sun
With sparkles and glitters in streams
Words of old have my dream reborn
The moment the clip rolled—-
cold rain of adrenaline hassled
down my spine and narrow nerves.
In Gorge Floyd I froze—compressed,
suppressed into miniature casket—-
“I can’t breathe”—the resonance of this
mighty fight of tints and taints against
the ground, as a knee slices through
my throat—he kneels, in order of State
Sacrifice—one more scape goat will
do today, or perhaps, a black sheeple.
Dusk dawned on my noon—I supped on
salt dust—crippled on plaintive waterfall—
my soul hung on cobweb; sling falling
in the abyss of my subdued skull.
I glowered numb—-coalesced and
collapsed into myself—escapism
escaped me; so I sank deeper
into the ocean of Existential Hate
that tends to skin me alive—putting
an embargo on my ration of breath
as I gatecrash my public obituary—
facing fire-spits from bazooka mouth
bullies—gobbling acrid bullet tablets
to cure my genetic skin decease;
is to hang on a hangman’s guillotine;
on trumped up etiquettes—-the
'gravesands' on my shallow grave
hold bound my frail spirit to eternal,
age-long ransom and foster-slavery.
I see a cluster of stars—MLK, Dialo,
Arbery, Michael Brown, Eric Garner,
Breonna—the more I look, more I see;
clad in old-gold brown, tainted in
clots of maroon ink, from ‘hole’ of
hell, jungle of death—aimed and shot
at—the grand prize for Human Hunt;
point at and kill, the fattest lambs
to entice thirsty gods—mixture
of blood splotches and 'donkeysweat',
trickles of teardrops irrigate the land
with infestation. Oh! Mother Africa!
Are we the lambs for cutthroat ritualists?
Too many questions
Come to my mind
And rush against my veins
Like the ocean’s bubbles
Why love is not for everyone?
Like the sunshine reaching
All beings
Like the sea’s waves, reach all virgin shores
Why love is not like
Water
Bread
Wine
Like an enfant water stream
Come from a titan desert to reach a big lake
Like a cloud
And rain
Like grass and
Flowers
For everyone
I thought
It is for all
Human being
With no exception
No etiquettes
No protocols
Or political debates
Why it is not possible
To get a natural love
Like a red rose
Rising up from
The sand
Why love cannot
Grow up naturally
Over
Our chest
Like our
Black
Soft
Yellow
Long
Short
Alternatively, curtail hair
In our pens pockets
And wallet
Why love is not
A necessity
Like poetry?