Best International Poems | Poetry
Below are the all-time best International poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of international poems written by PoetrySoup members
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New International Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best International poems are below this new poems list.
International Facial Blindness
by TheKidster, Billy
International Dance Competition
by Sender, Michael
International students in the land of opportunity
by Wolf, Gershon
International Digestion
by Dion, Howard
international women's day march 8th 2018
by harris, matthew
INTERNATIONAL DATE LINE
by Reeves, Terry
Today International Peace Day
by Golshani niya, Dr Mohammad
international
by parker, cs
International Women's Day
by bauer, ilene
Ryan Seacrest International Spy
by Hauser , Mike
View all new International Poems
The Best International Poems
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International Poem
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Love is not a color,
No hue, neither a race.
All of our blood is the same,
That runs deep within our veins.
If we could lift up each other,
And know that we all care.
If we help our sisters and brothers,
There's a bond that we'll share.
©2013 Honestly JT
Copyright © Honestly J.T. | Year Posted 2013
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Walls of silence hold,
Me prisoner,
The child held within,
Cries out for release.
Relative solitude comforts,
Not the tortured soul,
Inward coiling withdrawing,
Deep inside.
Shedding its outer skins,
Protective
Layer thus preserving its,
Inner being.
Innocents shroud lies in ruins.
Gentle spirit, cast aside wings,
Damaged appendages.
The fallen angel kneels in,
Shame,
Shadows before mankind.
Unanswered prays rest upon,
Deaf ears.
Muted sobs, echo on stilled,
Winds breath.
Hardening to stone, the
Chilled heart
Reflects frozen repose.
Forgotten amongst mine own,
Kindred,
Childhood symbolizes a betrayed,
Victim’s refuge.
Small fragile hands reach out,
Into nothingness,
Hollow space grasping into,
Oblivion.
Chained shackles twist,
Imaginations warped view,
Somber tones cloud troubled,
Thoughts.
Amidst life's trials, I'm aimlessly,
Adrift,
Without any form of stability.
I, alone remain shambles,
Wreckage.
Displaced and damaged,
Beyond repair.
A broken doll thrown away,
By those who should have,
Cared for her the most.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013
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hate knows no limits
Boston or Beirut Bombings
innocent ones die
in Paris or Pakistan
atrocities unlabeled
innocent ones die
Baghdad or Berlin
Lives should have the same value
innocent ones die
innocent ones die
religion or politics~~~
extremism kills
Terrorism reigns
the world is no longer safe
innocent ones die
say a prayer for all
terror plays no favorites
innocent ones die
Eileen
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
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Proverbs Of Life
If you don't have a purpose in life, then
you don't have a life.
It is not what the world can offer you. It is
what you can offer the world that counts.
If you think nobody loves you, think twice.
Someone loves you very much.
It is not how people can help you that counts.
It's how you can help people that matters.
If you have lost your best friend today, make
a new one tomorrow. It will make a difference.
If your life is not going good for you and you
don't know why. Analyze your life and you will
find some answers.
Don't count the bad times you've had in your
life. Count the blessings you had instead...
09/13/2014
By Lucilla M. Carrillo
Copyright © Lucilla Carrillo | Year Posted 2014
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I'm a Catholic,You're a Muslim
I'm an Orthodox ,You're a Protestant
I'm a Hindhuist,You're a Buddhist
You're an Atheist,and I am a Mormon too.
You're an African,I'm American
You're an Asian,I'm a European
You're a Mexican, I'm an Indian
You're an Arab,I'm a Jew
But prior to all our distinct differences
I'm a Mother ,I'm a Father
I'm a Sister,I'm a Brother
I'm a Son,I am a Daughter
and I'm Human just like you.
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2016
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God’s inspirational napalm set ablaze upon the trees of autumn,
Welcome to the ascension of the fall season, bursting forth onto
The leaves once evergreen.
Colors of crisp snapping, auburn reds, fires aglow oranges, and
Subdued darken browns to contrast the mixtures blending, created
By the masterful hands of a higher powers creativity.
Tender timbers mutated into a glorious display of light and color,
Splashing the palette array of natural beauty.
Blessed in magnificence the lord hushes and stills, the mortal heart,
As inspiration captures the poets ink pen to write,
Upon the empty parchment page.
Strolling lovers huddle together, beneath a wondrous tapestry,
A canopy of leaf petals, that descend as it is caressed
By a chilling fall breeze.
Whispering softly in each others ears tender words
Sweet nothings, youth in utter splendor wrapped
Embraced in loves devotional shawl of emotions.
Behold vows promises of perfection uniting
These spirits of fall, united against the winter
Winds forever more.
Cold and slain lay the roses of summer, yet within
The wild heart of innocence, the flame of desire
Shall not flicker out, nay it lives strong in the young,
A blossom of delicate distention is true loves flower.
Oh in timeless remembrance as years will pass,
And only one shadow remains between these two
Souls united joined in life as one.
Shall beyond another single silhouette awaits,
Tracing these burnt ambers of autumn from long ago,
In cascading showers of melted colors of memory.
In angels tears a gentle rain does fall, yet a smile
Crosses the face of this eternal love, a blessings
Promise in one word spoken, always.
God’s inspirational napalm set ablaze upon the trees of autumn,
Welcome to the ascension of the season, bursting forth onto
The leaves of the evergreen.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014
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I can clearly sense your utter despair of Der Matratzengruft*
As you valiantly carried on your poetic works to the very end.
This did not change your literary accomplishments well-known,
And your courage through the misery and morphine* is undeniable.
Your lyrical poetry speaks volumes among all of German literature,
And it was most marvelously set to music by the likes of Schumann,
Schubert, Silcher, Mendelssohn, Brahms, and Strauss—to name a few.
Their melodic tones as applied to your verses then, now live on forever!
Your role in and principal contributions to Romanticism fall in line
With the highest quality of your poetic language and its intention.
Your role in battling early nineteenth-century censorship in Prussia set
You out front of many of your contemporaries who resisted much less.
It’s so tragic Herr Heine that your literary resistance so prominent in
Challenging Prussian censorship would make you ever so more noted,
And besmirched as the Nazis in 1933 burned your books and those of
Other German scholars as a reflection of their insane and twisted beliefs!
It’s with great irony indeed that the banning and burning of your works by
The Nazis was parodied further by them as they ignobly quoted and used
Your famous line from “Almansor,”* when you likened that “where books
Are burned, in the end people will be burned too.” We know what they did!
And so, with both honor and sadness I do understand the very cry of lament
From the confines of your mattress-grave about your final exquisite poetry,
Written through writhing pain and tears as you faced the end of your life.
It took great courage to face your end like this while staying true to your Muse!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (December 15, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain poetic format)
AUTHOR’S NOTES:
*Der Matratzengruft from the German means “The Mattress-Grave.”
(Heinrich Heine was confined to his bed, his “mattress-grave,” in 1848
with various illnesses until his eventual death eight years later in 1856.)
*Heine poetically referred to his pain predicament in the poem “Morphine,”
written near the end of his life, when he noted in two famous verses:
“Gut is der Schlaf, der Tod ist besser—freilich / Das beste waere, nie
Geboren sein.” (In English: “Sleep is good, Death is better—of course, /
Best of all would be never to have been born.”)
*Almansor was a play written by Heine in 1821 that had a most famous
line in German: “Das war ein Vorspiel nur, dort wo man Buecher verbrennt,
verbrennt man auch am Ende Menschen.” (Rendered in English: “That was
but a prelude; where they burn books, they will ultimately burn people as
well.”) The significance here is that as the Nazis burned the books of Heine
and other German artists on the Opernplatz in Berlin in 1933, they actually
celebrated this event by “engraving” Heine’s famous words from “Almansor”
in the ground at the Opernplatz site. The obvious depravity of this terrible
event reflects the innate cruelty, stupidity and evil of the Nazis as they
burned the books and defiled the names and reputations of Heine and other
famous German writers. Their actions were monstrous and shameful, and
were indicative of mankind’s base instincts at their very worst. Moreover,
despite converting to Protestantism from Judaism in 1825, Heine’s Jewish
origins played a continuing presence in his life and were one of the major
factors for his being scapegoated by the Nazis later in 1933. And besides,
the Nazis were always more interested in burning books, rather than
reading them!
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
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Beneath the opal white moon, the crying doves shed their precious tears,
Causing the purple rain to fall, melting at the lavender notes of musical dreams,
Camelot’s illusionary ivory towers of brilliant colors, seemingly fades unto the
Violet shades of gray, as the minstrel’s music grows silent for the last time!
The pied piper’s fluted guitar, remains stilled in the silence of a generations
Mind, the world weeps in fuchsia stained technicolor for their slain prince
Of rock in roll, plays now within the heavenly band beyond, rocking the
Ages, lost amongst the spiritual stardust from which creations mystical
Legacies are born!
In reverences musical temple hall of fame, another name is added
Amongst the universal giants, that have crisscrossed humanities
Triumphant vast historical tides, rolling ever onwards within the waves
Of the timeless rebel, jamming with the beating rhyme of the
Human soul forever!
Gentleman’s coterie of lace and satin’s refinement, is this instrumental
Conductor strumming, at the inner finite strings vibrating within the
Harmonic orchestra of an eclectic mind, a whispering dreamer whom
Heard an expressionistic tempo hidden within the color purple,
And thus wept in the violet rain!
A flickering candle quivers within the moistures clouded wake,
The concert master stands alone at the center of the musical hurricane,
Untethered from his slave marked chains, the band leader strikes against
His podium of freedom at last, rock-n-rolls final creshando, echoes
Within the winds of destiny, carried upon the voices of his generation!
Legends burnt ashes rise above this fiery phoenixes’ resurrection,
For in truths resolve this singing firebird’s melody, shall play forever
Onwards, as the doves cry in flights eternal soaring!
Where has the musical voyager gone, the visionary fuchsia master,
The soul captain hailing the distant shores of rock nirvana,
By playing mystical notes of color illusions, on the blank canvas
Of the horizons musical sheets, beyond mortality’s everlasting
Window of social acceptance!
Let the elegant birds of peace fly forth, with their wings appendages
Extended upon the breezes of this artistic grand master, set blazing
In lavender flames, quenched only the falling of the purple rain!
But even then harken, listen my generations of rock fans,
Can you not hear the wailing guitar, of the musical force, known
As prince the visionary revolutionary!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2016
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Wicked news flash - torrential storm - Purple
streaks of confusion striking. Violent grey
clouds spinning its evil. Hatred scattered
in shreds of hail. Waves pounding
against our aching skulls. Who
can live dangerously and ride
their storm. To roll with the
thunder and never see blue
sky. These puddles of
tears splashing out of
fear. All that made a
clear day is spiralling
out of control. How?
can we keep calm.
Wake from this
never ending
storm. Brace
yourself this
may be a
false
wea
th
er
re
po
r
t
Copyright © Carol B. | Year Posted 2017
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Our dark founding father, of American literature,
A sinister beacon of darkness, lighting the way
Into the darkened abyss of mankind’s soul.
Within the galleria of madness, he is the
Grandmaster of the black ink, and it's
Written words of terror.
In thus the shadow realm, does his spirit
Still roam, on the cutting edge of fear,
A fine thin line, is drawn between reality,
And fictions illusionary world.
Life's a shunned, abandonment’s creation,
The lord's misbegotten son, embraced
The night's cloak, in it's power
His only salvation unto history's
Remembrance, is found a truth's
Justice and notability's respect.
Loves passionate compliant servant,
Dashed against the rocks of life itself,
Broken and damaged, he rose above
The waves of poverty, and the under
Current of tragedies broken
Heart.
Some may say he wrote from the after
Effects that laid, at the bottom
Of the bottle.
Or afterfeeds drug endued comma, dulling
The emotional nerves concept between
Right and wrong, the social exceptionable
Norm.
But we care not what others wish to believe,
For we honor him, those of us the dark poets,
As the father whom lead the way, between
Light and dark.
Dearest Edger Allen Poe, the legend, the man,
A spiritual dark representative, with pens quailed
Ink at his command.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2013
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In 1914 those aged between 18 and 55
Had no option or choice in life.
In 1939 those aged between 18 and 44
Had to defend home and fight a world war.
They dug holes in the mud and lived in underground huts,
They had no luxuries and would often see guts.
When it rained, there was no drain, so water filled up to their knees.
A regular sight of dead bodies with no escape from disease.
Unlike yours was their life, so remember thee,
It's a small thing to do for you and me.
Those who lived with machine guns taunting day and night,
In a hole in a field miles away from their life.
Vindication unknown and with no indication if the end was in sight,
Just carry on soldier and fight for your right.
Secure the right of freedom,
Allowed in your kingdom,
As that place is your home.
Home is where the heart is but the futures an unknown.
So we who are now alive and don't face that fate,
Should pay tribute to past generations for doing something that we would hate.
War creates heroes but wars are evil,
In the past people gave their life as a present for present day people.
Men and women of our island, our Empire and our Commonwealth,
As well as our allies that fought for a common want,
That want being the luxury of which we know no different,
So pay your respects as the past is significant.
So thank you soldier, or the women of the factory
Your story is unpleasant but is remembered as glory.
We that live now should know our existence is simple,
The lessons of history are what make our lifetime peaceful.
We owe unto you the most priceless of debts,
Those generations who achieved greatness we must not forget.
Our nation as one, say, "lest we forget".
Our species, our planet, "lest we forget".
We must never forget what the past regrets.
Forever Remember. Lest We Forget.
Copyright © Nick Trim | Year Posted 2017
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Paul, Peter and the Tweeter
Why not choose,
a billionaire leader?
One who is not
an eloquent speaker.
Trouble rises,
he robs Paul to pay Peter.
The bold rich need tax savings,
forget about the meeker.
From a distance,
we watch the kingdom teeter.
Him smirking on high,
he thinks "What could be sweeter!"
Why oh why,
did so many choose that cheater?
Global temperature rising,
things aren't the same.
Scientific facts need hiding,
isn't that a shame?
There's new logic he's applying,
says coal dust isn't really flying.
Even though the fish are bitter
and you can't see them under the litter,
no one can turn down the heater.
"Fake News" he says,
check out T-Man's Twitter.
The Country is "Great Again",
cause he ain't no quitter!
Yet people are making less than their babysitter.
Good jobs will go with free trade,
might as well become a waiter.
Otherwise you’ll starve sooner or later.
People happy,
he wants to build a wall.
Mexico will pay,
so build it tall.
More immigrants?
You don't need them at all.
But no one left to pick the fruit,
or to be at your beck and call.
Watch it all fall,
for sure the economy will stall.
No one buying nothing at the mall.
Meanwhile
Klu Klux Klan standing tall.
If they ask him,
T-Man will let them guard his wall.
Look for all the signs,
a leader who's a hater.
Mastertweeting, flatulater.
A logic lacking debater,
self-loving,
self-promoting, congratulator!
If he pushes the button,
we might become a large crater.
He'll spin it and tell those left,
"I'm the great emancipator!"
If you don't believe him,
You’re just another disloyal traitor!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2018
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"Mi primo" means my cousin in Spanish.
He calls me his "primita"- little cousin.
This is the story of how mi primo
Taught me about the meaning of bread;
Of the meaning of tortillas...
He and I are exchanging languages
Over Dairy Queen chicken strips;
I repeat the words he teaches me
Back to him in my all-american
White girl accent,
Trying to learn how to Salsa
With a tongue that only knows
How to stumble over the trills
And rapid-fire hot-sauce syllables-
He makes me say them again and
Again until I sound like a distorted
Calle 13 track on repeat...
Mi primo offers me the bread
That came with his meal;
I ask him why he doesn't want it.
He says he doesn't eat bread;
He is Hispanic; he eats tortillas-
Do I know tortillas?-
He gestures, indicates the
Flat, full moon-shaped
Circle of a torilla with his hands.
Si, I know tortillas.
What I want to know is-
What the heck do tortillas have to do
With whether you eat bread or not?
So mi primo tells me una historia
About a guy he knows,
20-something and something else...
All his family came from Guatemala;
He was brought up going to a church
With a pastor that preached sermons
That trilled like heavenly trumpets;
He has skin that was colored warm
As if he had grown up kissed by
The sun of his family's homeland;
He knew how to speak English but
His mother tongue was always Spanish-
His cousins were his best friends
Because being "un Guate" means
Knowing the meaning of "la familia"...
He learned at age 21
That he was born in America.
Eagerly, he shed his Hispanicness like
A snake skin that had grown too tight,
Clutching at the revelation of his birthplace
Like a get-out-of-jail free card,
Hides the color of his face behind
The red, white, and blue of his
Irrevocable Americanness...
He doesn't go to church anymore,
Because American guys don't
Have time for God;
He buys big, fancy cars he doesn't have
A prayer of paying off because
American girls are supposed to like
That kind of thing;
He tries not to remember
The meaning of la familia...
And he always eats bread-
His tongue has suddenly turned
Too American to abide the taste,
The flatness, of las tortillas...
He is the reason that mi primo cannot
Abide the taste of bread, too thick
With the flavor of betrayed heritage
To sit easy in his stomach...
Mi primo offers me,
His little blonde all-American cousin,
The bread he doesn't want.
I wonder if one day he'll
Mean the word "primita" enough
To offer me a tortilla.
Copyright © Cameron Hartley | Year Posted 2014
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In my father's eyes, I'll always be his princess,
No matter how old I've grown, he still sees
His little girl, dancing across the invisible stage
Before him.
A living Cinderella in miniature form, whom
Will never grow up, and thinks her dad is prince
Charming, and the strongest man on earth.
Cradling within this wondrous heart, is devotion’s
Biggest fan, the man I call my father, he's protector,
Comforter, and the everlasting image, of the perfect
Man that I idolize.
No wizard's wand or sword, holds more magic
Than his tender words of wisdom, as I stroll
Down the yellow brick road of life, I'm his
Dorothy, and he is, the Wizard of my oz.
Oh Papa, you've instilled the wonderment
Of this world within me, and I know, no matter
Where I roam, he shall always be a part
Of me.
You've always said, no matter how old I get
That within thy heart, a princess remains, timeless,
Ageless, as if Alice, hidden behind the looking glass,
Peering through from wonderland, magical world.
Perfection's cherished rose, whom never loses it's
Petals, but blossoms nourished by loves fertile soil,
That only a father's faith can provide.
I'll always be his princess, no matter what bad
Choices I may make in life, I know he'll pick me
Up and smooth out the wrinkles in my velvet gown,
Wiping away my tears, turning them instantly into diamond
Shards, and letting me dance away again, clapping
For this his darling princess.
So let the musical waltz of life, play forever forward,
As I lightly tip toe, across destiny’s ballroom floor.
My dancing card remains eternally full, written within
One name stands out, it is yours dearest sweet man.
He is after all my prince charming, and I am
His dearest little girl, and of coarse in his eyes
Always his little princess.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2014
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Oppressed by you, your state, your religion
So you think you good, kind and Superior
But I find you cruel, arrogant and callous
But that is just in my view, what do I know?
You control the language that describes pain
But there is no for me in its grid, or how I feel
My soul is ripped from my body and bound,
On to your machines on which I slave and toil.
You say it has to be this way, no room for doubt
Master and slave, it is only a matter of degrees
But it is my kind that is always tied to the rack
While you sip vintage wine in the lap of luxury.
Everything has its time and its place, yours is over
End is near, for you and everything you hold dear
Everything carries with it the root of its own destruction
And I will rejoice now that your has very nearly come.
Copyright © tony northover | Year Posted 2013
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Divine Flowers
In a flower’s velvet petals
There dwells a divine scent and hue
Soon a tiny creature settles
That will help pollinate a few.
We are blossoms of our dear God
Born each in colors of our kin.
It matters not our birth of sod
Neither the colors of our skin.
For Andrea Dietrich's "Tell Me Your Number Contest" I am 8
8 line form Heroic Rispetto (Month and Day) Path May 3rd. 5+3=8
Copyright © Connie Marcum Wong | Year Posted 2014
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If languages were instruments,
English, the language of my own America,
Would be something like a piano.
Each word is clear and sharp-
When we sing, the note does not waver.
But I suppose it's more fair to say that
English is something like an electronic keyboard
With two hundred different modes because English
Has so many different versions,
Adaptations of other instruments,
Emulations, or imitations, however you want
To think of it; there is no accent that cannot
Be reconfigured to be
Played on keys in distinct shades
Of black or white.
Arabic though...
Arabic is more like a violin.
The sound of Arabic
Flies up and down the scale
In deliciously smooth legato,
Stopping to linger on vibrato;
Poignant
Copyright © Cameron Hartley | Year Posted 2014
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Mother Nature Cries
Mother Nature cries now her deep tears of true sadness,
For all the years of Man’s sad shame and utter madness.
Man has brought this lovely lady quite often to tears,
By his poor and pathetic care of our Earth over the years.
Mother Nature’s been with Man now it seems forever,
And he does nothing at all and always tells her never!
Man’s climate sins are so tragic and always most telling,
And all he does is bitch and moan, and keeps on yelling!
Man’s span of existence is short in our Earth’s long life,
And all he’s done is corrupt, pollute and caused her strife!
Mother Nature cries at this sad tragedy Man has thus wrought;
She knows his life on Earth may be short, and learn he’ll Not!
Mother Nature will adapt and evolve over time with no problem,
And she knows Man’s adaptability to change may be a problem.
Perhaps Man will learn this sad lesson here before all is too late,
And seek climate harmony in all he does and make positive his Fate!
Mother Nature cries—yet this can change with Man’s redemption,
If Man becomes Earth’s Good Steward and lives by God’s direction!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved - May 3, 2015
(Rhymed Couplet)
*Originally completed for my new book on February 12, 2015.
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
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King Vlad Redux – Second Cold War
Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s grimy fingerprints on current history
are for him nothing to gloat about—au contraire I say emphatically:
His actions bespeak one who’s not an architect for peace—not at all,
rather a quite deceitful dictator and a harbinger of a Second Cold War.
King Vlad’s old Soviet-style actions are clear for all who care to see,
and make no mistake about it—he’s without remorse and a soul to boot.
A Master of Malarkey and an International Bamboozler Supreme, he
certainly is, with a menacing image and not one iota of conscience.
King Vlad risks a Second Cold War with his violation of international
law concerning the blatant, illegal annexation of the Crimean peninsula.
With his brand of new style Soviet adventurism on the march, the Old
Soviet Bear has been resurrected anew—and it’s hot on the prowl again!
King Vlad’s new spirit of nationalism for Russia is not at all progressive
as evidenced by his current war on certain ethnic minorities: Jews, Tartars,
Armenians, Gypsies—to include anyone who chooses to resist and protest
against his new age fanaticism rebranded anew in the twenty-first century.
King Vlad’s lineage to and proclivity for the old Soviet Union and its star
cast of past gangster luminaries: Lenin, Stalin, Beria, Molotov, Brezhnev,
and Andropov—to name a few, are quite telling since they reflect the real
nature of his psyche and the tragedy he brings now to the world stage.
And lest we forget, the innocent souls of the murdered passengers from flight
MH17 in eastern Ukraine who cry out, as do their families, for justice from
the criminal thuggery and hooliganism perpetrated by King Vlad in support
of proxy groups that do his evil biddings soaked in lies, treachery, and deceit.
King Vlad takes pleasure in fulfilling a fanciful role today of the old Soviet
Bolshoi Nachalnik (Big Boss), whose historical antecedents from Soviet Big
Bosses of past fame, doesn’t augur well for future democracy in New Russia,
and doesn’t align with the precepts of good governance and human rights.
King Vlad’s treachery and deception are certainly open for everyone to see
as he executes his plan of disrupting the balance of the current world order.
We all should be forewarned of the clouds of tyranny and aggression that
could be unleashed one day on the European continent and the world today.
King Vlad, despite very strong objections and economic sanctions imposed
by Western leaders and diplomats, understands only one word rendered so
poignantly in the German language: die Macht (or Power), which lurks ever
behind his public mask and psychological makeup as a former KGB officer.
King Vlad’s actions reflect his virtues of lying, denying, accusing, rejecting,
and criticizing—all poison arrows in his quiver as a Master of Prevarication.
His real mask is that of a Monster who had the very best Soviet teachers and
wishes to tilt the axis of his New Russia on a collision course with the West.
And so Generalissimo Stalin . . . how do you like your nasty little boy now???
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved (November 30, 2014)
(Narrative Quatrain)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
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There are times
You see in the eyes of a child
An Angel
Our Alice in wonderland
Through the looking glass
Even General Zia yielded to her charm
In our dreams she is ageless like the winds caress
Look deep into her heavenly being
See the seraphs eyes that lays a kiss upon you
Both young and old
See the hand that holds the poor
Listen to the voice
That united nations
Listen to the heart of Nazia Hassam
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
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International Poem
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A Progressive Shadow
A series of real challenges and troubling world events
In our twenty-first century give us a definite reason and
An urgency to pause and reflect on mankind’s situation.
Our world today—more than at any other time in the past,
Is faced with an uncertainty and a palpable anxiety that is
Pervading on the world stage for all of us to sense and see.
These challenges and situational-events are so daunting and
Form a “progressive shadow” engulfing the soul of mankind.
They cry out now for collective action to find real solutions.
Our technological advances are indeed impressive for sure,
But our stewardship of our planet is lacking, a true tragedy,
As the World Climate edges closer toward a vast cataclysm.
Our political leaders choose to bury their heads in the sand.
Now is the time we must to face down all of these problems,
As Mother Nature herself cries out warnings to our deaf ears.
The classical scourges: Tyranny, Poverty, Disease, and War
Are still with us today as they have been from the very start.
They accentuate mankind’s great shame for all of us to see!
Atrocities, Famine, Refugees, and Terrorism add their lot
To this growing list along with Nuclear Proliferation and
Political Mendacity for Personal Gain—with no end in sight!
Reasonable answers and solutions abound to these enigmata,
And people are in strife and rightfully want something better;
Yet the oft-noted solution is the “Head-in-the-Sand Syndrome.”
Despite any true faith in God, mankind must be self-reliant,
As a distant deity plays tough love with the bad decisions of
His “Divine Creation” as we all stumble along without a clue.
This creates fear, frustration, and anxiety that multiply readily,
Making potential solutions and decisions even harder to do.
There can never be easy answers under these circumstances!
The tasks facing mankind are many and Sisyphean for sure;
Yet we must have the courage to face them down as we seek
Realistic accountability from our politicians and big business.
Meanwhile God is watching and Mother Nature is waiting . . .
For mankind to do the right thing and to step up to the plate;
For the “Collective We” hold the keys to make these changes.
Can we do it? Will we do it? Can we rectify our inhumanity?
Can our nation-states serve the people and not themselves?
Can we not all realize that we’re in this tragic mess together?
Tin-eared dictators and fools will gladly tell us all differently.
The temptation to take the easy way out is always there for us.
But are we prepared to inherit this wind and reap its vengeance?
Meanwhile we continue on our present tortuous path oblivious
To the realities facing us squarely down every minute of the day.
In a mythical sense—perhaps we wait for Jotunheim to save us?
Eventually all the sand in “Earth’s Hourglass” will run out and
Our gig will be up, and all of us will be forced to pay the Piper!
Are we not better than this? Let us hope we can find the courage!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved – October 29, 2015
(Unrhymed Tercet)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2015
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International Poem
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When I am in your home,
I am back to Laos after a lifetime.
I am in a place beyond words:
Where the steam of the kitchen
The smell of warm coffee
The sound of a television
The taste of a meal made with kindness
All feel like an America where our dreams come true,
Our memories return
And everything lost is found once more
Waiting with a smile, a sabaidee.
Copyright © Bryan Thao Worra | Year Posted 2015
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International Poem
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In the thickets glen beyond the forest wild
Lies the realm of the mystical unicorn,
Beauties elegance in motion, gracefully
Prancing with each delicate gallop forward.
She is queen in this ancient domain
Where man hands have never touched,
This unknown lands sacred soil.
Seasonal change lies beyond these
Pastures woven from purity’s innocence.
Here in the valley of evergreen the forgotten.
Magic still lingers as a whispered promise.
A spell cast unto the four winds long ages past,
By the magi wizard's from the olden times
A sanctuary unblemished.
Never shall it taste winters bitter icy hand.
Forever locked in warmth’s season of renewal
And rebirth.
A symbiotic relationship between mother earth
And this mythological creature.
Shall it evermore be so as long as the unicorn's
Thrives so the world remains spring eternal.
Nay she is sadden for she is the last of her kind
But natures kindness bares witness to a miracle
Growing within her womb.
Immortality's greatest gift to such wondrous
Majesty a colt.
To ease regrets tender heart, alone being
Soon to be no more.
Exhilaration acknowledgments is shown,
Within softness gentle brown eyed mare.
Nobility's royal steed stands tall and proud,
Bowing in respects fulfillment gratitude,
Unto Gaia, this divine gift given unto her.
Enchantments legendary creature raises it's
Golden horn towards the heavens,
It's powerful magic electrifies the sky.
Releasing thunders rumbling, causing even
God's angels to weep
With joys pure happiness crystal tears,
Hitting the ground below.
It's loves truest expression without words emotions spoken.
Two spirits mother and son are now united at last.
Together as one living in the isle of the Infinity.
And these immortals gallop racing against
Destiny’s winds,
Never to be separated or alone ever again.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
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Copyright © cherl dunn | Year Posted 2016
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International Poem
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We live today in a world of great tumult
And of rising uncertainty and anxiety
Which pervade the world stage like a cancer
Despite soaring technological advances
Our environment and our home Earth
Are bearing an unimaginable burden
People are wondering what must be done
To right these wrongs and adjust our course
Before we turn the corner to “No Return”
Tyranny, Poverty, Disease, and War
Are still with us today since the beginning
Of time and are mankind’s greatest shame
God may be with us intellectually
But mankind must be self-reliant
To survive an inattentive, distant deity
People see answers to these enigmas
Sounds are made, echoes are heard
But nothing comes back in response
Frustration reigns supreme for many
Fear and anxiety multiple all concerns
There can never be easy answers
*******
Tyranny still reigns alive in many countries
As the actions of tin-eared dictators abound
And are on ample display for all to see
Poverty is still a shameful, terrible curse
Which afflicts the most unfortunate
And is paid lip service by the wealthy
Disease is a scourge still in our world
And still felt by those most in need
And never enough is done to change this
War is the ultimate insult to mankind
And its wide-felt swath and affliction
Plagues yet our modern, enlightened world
What to make of all these challenges
Is not easy for any of us to digest
And let alone understand why
Yet understand, comprehend we must
If we want a better world for all to live in
A Sisyphean task at its very best
Man still holds the key to make change
Positive and real for our troubled Earth
But can it ever be really so in the end
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
Schoeningen, Germany (October 16, 2014)
(Tercet unrhymed poetic format)
Copyright © Gary Bateman | Year Posted 2014
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International Poem
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He speaks in broken English;
It's interesting to see my language this way-
Spread out like pieces of shattered ceramic,
The edge of each word tossing off glints of meaning
Like bits of light, illumination; a kaleidoscope
Of light or sound dancing in the air before his lips...
At times he seems embarrassed, pausing before he speaks,
Like the boy who tipped over his mother's favorite vase-
He knows how I love words- and scrambles to piece back
Together the fragmented ideas, hoping the cracks might
Be overlooked; the result of his efforts is often unconventional,
And yet... impossibly lovely too...
It's a picture puzzle of a lonely landscape rearranged into a flower
It's a mosaic; the pieces don't have to fit to make the image radiant
It's a kintsukuroi bowl, the language veined through with gilded passion,
More beautiful for having been broken
Copyright © Cameron Hartley | Year Posted 2014