Best Historyday Poems
with central time
worldwide for now
every country rearanging their scheduales to live a different day
the names of their days all different
except for the day with a name of destiny
paradise
and eternity
one day these three different days
will be born doing this strategically
waiting for the day
the world has the same day worldwide
surprise holiday to celebrate
by working with your will to do good
world peace is inevitable in this way
the third time the day is the same all over the world
you will be prepared to name that day paradise
one day of the week renamed from paradise
to destiny
one of these words to replace yesterday, today or tomorrow strategically
eventually you will have paradise, destiny, tomorrow
eventually you will realise that the best attempt at this you will call tomorrow
the day that never comes to strive towards as paradise and destiny continue to improve
by respecting death you earn intelligence
by caring for the meaning of life you earn your heart
by understanding your will to do good you earn your courage
the life experience of these three things is your soul
with the devil holding out for a good one
needing help with realising a good thing
this offers you the ability to see through the illusion of fear which is forever disappearing
at this point you dreams can now come true
It was the third lunar mission
Of the Apollo space program;
Destination was the earth’s moon
Where two men were going to land.
Neil Armstrong was the Commander;
Piloting the Columbia was Michael Collins;
Edwin “Buzz” Aldrin would Pilot the Eagle;
The landing craft they would land in.
Aldrin landed the Eagle
In the Sea of Tranquility,
While millions watched on TV sets,
Including my family and me.
On July 20, 1969,
Men from the Apollo 11 space flight
For the first time walked on the moon
Late on that summer night.
I’ll never forget the exact day it occurred;
It’s a special day for me;
I shared my eleventh birthday
With the men of Apollo 11 and history.
The ground, a glassy vermillion,
is stained by sacrifices;
humble offerings for the cause
before catching up to decency and laws.
Dead and buried they are.
Their dusty clouds of silence,
once kept in musty jars,
move like shadows across time.
Their voices, long retired to heaven,
speak now in whispers
that we have longed to hear.
To the left, a grandfather
hushing us with winds across the lips.
To the right, another
his grandmother's mother
dethroned queen in slave crown,
hollowed, she echoes centuries down
and says:
"The slayer, the slain
one keeper, one chain,
the spoils of our labor, as salt liquids streamed,
have poured into bricks with hope and a dream.
Though callous encumbered, beaten and worn,
we toiled to the day that freedom was born.
The times were like wind, familiar yet strange
blowing through ages but destined to change.
When heavy day's over, when heavy day's done
the chasm between two will close into one."
Such voices of wisdom heard through our cries
are steady and strong, are steadfast and wise
hopeful their children will pave a new way
beneath a new dawn, beneath a new day
so ghosts of our fathers can rest now at last
knowing our future has withstood their past.
She tells the story with tears in her eyes: Her family's farm, largest farm in the county;
Land-granted, debt-free paradise; all they needed pay were quarterly taxes;
She tells of how one hot summer day, the wind began to blow,
Blowing away moisture-filled clouds, drying the ground into crackled layers.
She tells of bitter winter days, snow blowing back into the clouds,
Pastures dry-freezing, blasted by cold winds from the northwest.
She tells of hot winds scorching pastures; starving cattle choking on thistles;
Government agencies purchasing the remaining cow-shaped, walking skeletons;
She tells of beloved horses loaded into rail cars bound for St. Paul stock yards,
Purchased by the army for $3 a head -- 75 cents per glue-filled hoof;
She tells of scraping grit from the butter dish; scraping mud from the ice box;
Of lifting dusty scum from the milk bottles; rinsing dusty scum from mouth rags.
She tells of two years with no crops, two years of blowing dirt;
Two years with no rain, no snow; two years of diffused sunlight, beautiful sunsets;
She tells of so much electricity in the air, in the ground, running from roof to wire,
Men would wrap their hands in pieces of cloth before they touched
The handles of their cars, lest they be thrown to the ground from the static.
Her voice lowers as she tells of the day the wind finally faltered, then died away.
She tells of the day her grandfather stood on his once-proud porch,
Finally able seeing through clean, clear air, the farm he would soon no longer own.
Taxes unpaid, liens placed on farms, on equipment, on promises; 'sheriff's sale' posted;
Her tears fall as she tells of how he was forced to let it go, to give it up;
She tells of her birth, ten years later, in a migrant shack in Washington state;
She says history sealed her desperate legacy before she ever had a chance.
I’ve written of the happy times,
I’ve written of the sad.
I’m looking through my memories
For something that is bad.
Perhaps I should tell my great age,
But that would be contrary
To vow I made not to reveal it,
Even in my obituary.
I must try to think of something
That would give me claim to fame.
That I can’t recall a single thing
Should give me cause for shame.
I’ve walked the straight and narrow
In the middle of the highway,
And thus missed all of the pitfalls
That were hidden on the byway.
I did hit Ripley’s column, at
Urevealed time of my birth.
(Ripley gathered strange facts
From the far ends of the Earth).
I arrived the seventh member
Of my family you see. As
Seventh granddaughter of each grandma
I was deemed a rarity.
It was Sunday, seventh day of the week,
When I uttered my first cry,
And the seventh day of the month,
The year’s seventh month, July.
Mamma cut that column out
And kept it in the Bible’s pages.
She and Daddy often called me
Their little “Marvel of the Ages”.
WINTER SOLSTICE AT NEW GRANGE
Sun seems to have gone away -
Light bonfires! Pray she will return!
Our calls to her rise with the burn:
Winter solstice the darkest day.
Our hearts at New Grange will fill:
Trees evergreen are cut for scent;
Dancing and singing with energy pent;
Warding off this dark day’s chill.
Mark the path scant ray has found -
Only in this, the shortest daylight,
A dawn hardly changed from night,
In long dim passages underground.
The pale ray tells this day is worst,
Buried ‘neath our secret mound
Built in strongest fortress round -
But tomorrow will be the first
Of better days when wine and meat
And proud bronzed brooches
Shining as the light approaches
Will cheer the clans to dance and eat.
...........................................................
Poem about Celtic Winter Solstice Holy Day
for Deborah Guzzi's competition.
Standing that morning at that Lexington field
Not knowing what drama the day would yet yield
When off to my right rang the shot of a gun
I knew that this dreaded war had just begun
No one knowing who had shot first
This day would go down in history as being one of the worst
Stumbling my way threw the gray smoky haze
Everyone looking like their in a daze
Brothers and friends lying dead on the ground
And i know that bloodier days are still yet bound
From demanding England, America has just tore
For that first shot has just begun the Revolutionary War
Form:
An angel fell from the sky
the day she disappeared.
Searching the Pacific
far and wide that day.
An angel had been
lost somewhere at sea.
She had flown the
world around and around.
Her plane was her home
away from home.
Comfort of the sky,
was all she asked for,
no one knows what
happened to her that,
fatal day in 1937,
only God Himself,
knows the answer
of her fate, no one is sure,
she was the first woman
to solo the Altantic,
so one day she decided
to fly around the world,
she left New Guinea
and headed for Howland Island,
but mysteriously vanished
from the face of the earth,
shocking the world
of the news,
she has never been,
forgotten.
wrote 8-5-08 In Memory of Amelia Earhart 1898-1937
Form:
“‘I’ refers to India. That is, India is the narrator. She is sharing the days which she is
observing from the very beginning to the present life. Let us see what she is trying to
tell……..”
It was a long age,
When I glimpsed at the long-ago,
Flourished nation was my name,
Sensation didn’t last for long.
O my deity! Someone’s bad eye,
Grasped the honorable potency,
In the front of eye,
A big shot had stolen the energy.
The foreigners came to settle beside,
I invited them entirely,
Amid their smartness behind,
How this became a cause of dying?
Aliens had detained the whole thing,
No hopes of acquiring the feed.
The moment, they misused everything,
Chains restricted the hand.
Among, some sacrificed for me,
“It’s too much, we can’t bear this anymore”
From this, they aspired for me,
Attaining independence for long
Fire and bullets were on the mode,
Millions were expired and leaved,
Seemed not affecting the bond,
At last, I was again freed.
My children could inhale,
Bodies of great traits
Are safe under my soil,
Let’s remember the forfeit of lives.
A day of 15th august,
Comes once in the year
Proves everyone is liberated,
Let’s sing the Anthem with passion.
It’s about 63years of liberty.
I’m seeing my blossoms,
Some has already forgotten the mighty,
Spit into my flag, respect is far.
I require comparison,
War days and the present,
Looks alike where,
No wish to reflect.
Hope! One day will surely arrive,
Dignity and pride is seen everywhere.
The dark sky will not be here
The pain will be sealed, bliss will enter.
Jai hind! Jai Bharat!
Independence poem
Written by:
Shrishty Shrivastava
‘X’ standard
Yes, the end has at last arrived.
We saw the minefields ahead and continued forward
With the abandon of the damned.
Occasionally I could see the flicker of insanity,
Resting deep within your eyes.
There was nothing to be done, but stare
At the heavens and pray
For the resalvaging of the soul.
You are gone, but I was a million light years away
Long before you had a glimmer of
This fact.
Now there are the faint spectral trails of memories,
And conglomerations energy vortices ...
Speaking from a time that should have
Been kinder and more mericful, yet
Ended up in classic meat-grinder fashion.
In afterthought,
Moving about in my day to day pergrinations,
There must be more consciousness of the gravity
Of my feet - as they have crossed the boundaries
Where I cannot return from.
In this,
I know that we will spend some time in reverie,
But that will fade as new life opens up,
And replaces the old and tired
With the new cycle.
The clearing of the refuse.
The planting of a new garden.
... May the fruits be more sweet and
The vegetables spill from the basket.
Some events, in each generation, significantly, our lives do sway
Everyone remembers the same exact moment as if it occurred yesterday
Past history that stays in our minds, moments we cannot forget
Terror reigned upon our countrymen from an unknown threat
Even now the vision still haunts us, as many the pilgrimage make
Memorials stand now where towers stood before and pictures the visitors take
Buried beneath the now sacred ground are souls forever lost
Energies spent on security tightening is the ultimate cost
Remember forever the events of that day and lives lost in trying to right it
1 day of terror from a stealthy foe and
1 decade now trying to fight it
I could never understand how she could allow him to abuse us everyday.
Break broom/mopsticks over our body.
Inflicting such great pain that the abuse became the norm.
An everyday torment of blood mixed with screams and fear
I don't understand how we could beg her to please take us with her when the monster became upset
Only for her to grab her keys look down at us and say I can't
She returning home to her young now battered and bloody because the monster had a bad day
Her defenseless young souls had no strength to shield their flesh from the wrath of this predator
He is the hands that feeds her and maintains her lifestyle
She didn't want to give that up to defend her seeds
Each day was filled with fear of dying
Fear of wanting to tell but afraid to be separated from the others by the state
So you take the abuse
One year passes by
Seven years
Then Ten years pass by
You leave
And something happens in your life that causes you to have no other possible option but to return to your past
Return to bad memories praying that the monster has changed
But you soon find out that he remains the same
You leave as soon as you arrived and now free from the hell of this demon
You pray and pray and pray that God will one day allow this lifetime of pain to heal and disappear from
your memory
Even though this monster remains to be a ruthless beast
You pray to God that he may help you forgive
Always remember that being kind will result in you staying on top
For those doing wrong they have to continue looking over their shoulders
Each day trying to cover up their cruel intentions
Yet in due time they will reap what they sow
So don't return evil for evil
Don't stoop to their level
Remain calm and just
You will only win in the end if you do so because everything both good and bad comes to light
Continued From:
2. "Quien es?" "Who is it?" Part 2
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195856
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He loved to read. He loved to sing. He loved to dance and even act.
He'd spend many days involved with his school plays.
His mother's death however would put an end to all of that.
Her loving memory probably grieved him all the rest of his short days.
He loved her devotedly and he lost her at a time when she was the whole of his life.
A large part of his heart surely died as he cried
beside his mother at her deathbed that night.
After Mrs Catherine Antrim was laid down to rest,
her two sons would be separated and go from one foster home to the next.
The kid must have wondered if he'd ever again see his brother Joe.
Was Joe his older or younger brother? This is another fact we don't know.
We do know that their step father, one William Antrim ,
abandoned the offspring of his departed wife Catherine.
Catherine knew she was dying and probably married Antrim to insure
that her boys would always have a family and home.
If he promised to care for and love them, his promises weren't pure.
Catherine no sooner died and Antrim was gone.
He wasn't even there on the day that she died,
nor during the days that preceded the end of her suffering pneumonia.
With one last look into their eyes, he gave the brothers their final separate good byes.
William Antrim then left the boys and moved to Clifton, Arizona.
And so began the short and violent life of this unfortunate child.
Legend doesn't accurately portray the brutal harshness of the true life he had lived.
His was the tragedy of a promising young boy, forced to become a man while still a child.
All would one day know him as Billy, the Kid.
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To Continue Go To:
4. Billy, the Kid
http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poem_detail.aspx?ID=195852
We always notice twilight and dawn ...
the sun appears and then it is gone.
Nothing much happens at noon
a lunch hour that is soon
followed by a siesta
while the rest of
the day is brought up short
as twilight brings a report
of the approaching night
with all its fright
of boogie men
and other days when
the fire had to be kept
as the family slept
and the animals paced
outside our cave space.
Then the beating heart
sighs with a start
when another day dawns
and the body yawns.
Eternal time that cycles by
is just the same for you and I ...
we always notice twilight and dawn,
the sun appears and then it is gone.
I have written to you every day
It has been over twenty five years
Not one day did I miss writing to you
No not even one day
About my feelings and fears
The things I did, the only way
When insanity would invade and normal was not around
Tricks were played in my head
No matter how crazy, I wrote to you
For years you were quiet, never made a sound
Of all the things that they did and said
Some day it would all come true
You knew my every thought and pain
I told you everything
You knew what I wrote on April 3, 1993
You are the best thing I ever did, I cannot complain
Back then I did not know what it would bring
It was you that saved me from the hanging tree
Now I have written a book about you
Because you are all about me
Times and places, names and faces of them all
All about what evil doers do
You are the one that kept me free
Dear Diary, I thank you most of all
Form: