Best Occupation Poems
Cries of humanity
Cries of war
War that kills
War imposed upon kids
Kids as pure as a Mother’s love
Kids with million dreams
Dreams that are shattered
Dreams destroyed by weapons
Weapons unleashed on living beings
Weapons that spare not even trees
Trees that make the air clean
Trees look pleasing to the eyes
Eyes which are blinded
Eyes that can’t see the plight
Plight that is very alarming
Plight of Earth’s humans
Humans were meant to be kind
Humans should've cultivated love
Love that looks but just a word
Love is leaving this cruel world
World witnessed many massacres
World but kept producing bombs
Bombs snatched kids from moms
Bombs even burnt butterflies' wings
Wings gained by the little kids’ souls
Wings carrying them to the God
God is there to hear their complaints
God shall ease their pains
Pains are being Inflicted even on animals
Pains are what the Earth now feels
Feel the ache of the oppressed
Feel these problems in your heart
Heart always deep down knows
Heart always craves peace
Peace only should rule the Earth
Peace like the words of grand-mothers
Mothers never have to cry
Mothers should always smile
Smile that men deserve too
Smile can only be brought by justice
Justice is crucial for survival
Justice can eradicate occupation
Occupation is a barbaric act
Occupation must end
End of the Earth is drawing near
End should not bring happiness
Happiness is all we need
Happiness brings peace
Peace...
Need...
_______________________________________
Paghunda Zahid
On the coast of gold(Ghana) where ethnic cultures intertwines like glittering and colourful 'bonwire' kente
A vibrant tapestry of diversity divine.
Starting from the South where the powerful Ashanti real heritage
Tracing to the Fante coastal tales of the sea
Across the Nzema fishing net cast upon the tides
To the Ewe's rhythmic abadza
And the atumpan of the Ashanti's that echoes
And rejoices to the dance adowa beating the soil.
Oh Ghana's culture, beacon of our pride
A tool for democratic thrive
The history and festivals like aboakyir, Samba and Kundum
stirs our spirit as the gleaming star of the east forces the earth to revolve around it
Ghanaian culture beauty blooms as democracy prevails within us
For Warrior King's culture, a tool we wield to build a generation graced with autonomy indeed.
The Black Volta spreads walks majestically as autonomy and democracy spreads it's wings
The symphony of highlife and Sankofa the mythical bird of the acient trumpet proverbs of those days
For it is not just the taste of our abunuabunu or the gold that adorn our neck that makes us take our stance
But Remember diversity of our culture
Warrior King's in diversity
In defence shall we fight and perish to bring the eagle full of might
Our culture unite
Our culture our voice
Our culture transforms and clear every blurrish sight
Let us all come together and celebrate Ghanaian culture the Genesis and revelation of democracy.
Thank you
They came in silence,
moving through the speckled shadows of the dawn
half-life
half-something else;
a strangeness
They came in with the news,
not in it
not carrying it to us;
but with the news they arrived,
silently.
We only read the words,
but with the reading,
we knew they had arrived
and what was ours
was passing from us.
They’re sitting now in every room.
At night we almost hear them.
Fragmented whispers from up in the attic space,
beneath the eaves, where they have frightened
swallows from their nests.
Uninvited, they came
and like spiders filled the empty spaces.
The house is full now
and every empty room inhabited.
Never seen but always present,
they have made this house their home.
No fuss.
No malice.
But we know now this house is theirs
and we are only tenants.
The Occupation
Before all of this
before all of the universe
even before the super speck singularity
there existed Alpha and Omega
that is to say that,
there was only the very quiet and very still
infinite future of endless possibilities
existing everywhere and all at once
a present unrealized and undefined
no beginning and no end
chaotic and void for lack of time
distance and instant undefined
somehow,
infinite possibility harmonized
infinite energy was realized
but it had no where to go
so it existed as a ball of light
that gathered infinite possibility
until it particalized and became
the very first instance of a present time
the very center of a future
was now defined
the particle converted to momentum
it's space conquered and defined
so the electric ball shrank down
to grab another piece of infinite possibility
the past the distance left behind
the momentum in the past now pressed on the future
points of time multiplied
until distance reached a size where
the infinite energy began to divide
into energies of different types
and the balls of light gathered together
to form molecules of all kinds
and great spheres of fusion
that could convert the balls into lines
and when all the conditions were just right
within the newly organized
infinite possibility time line
came the third day and
the first planet to come alive
and produce mass seeking mass
to energize and multiply
if life can only come from life
then the substance of the future
must be alive
and all that exists is but the gravity of thought
organized and placed within a line of time
his children are consciousness at liberty
as a race of beings we define
the line of time we occupy
the meek shall inherit the earth
and all things belong to the wise
Guess I'll ne'er understand those loony loons
Shaking their fists at the Wall Street tycoons
The Tea Party did it right
They didn't leave filth and blight
'Occupiers' remind me of baboons
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Never have I known myself so well.
Never have I ever been more glad I've been through hell.
Never have my shoes been so worn,
Or my heart been so torn.
But though my heart is heavy
My head is high.
My pace is steady!
Never have I ever been more ready.
Man, who cares about those shoes?
I could walk the streets in bare feet if I had to.
Young trainee driver behind the wheel blurt out a helpless damn
Were starting down hill brakes are gone I'm afraid were in a jam
To the old trucker in the bunk what should I do
His reply your behind the wheel it's up to you
Straight up in the bunk old trucker sat when the drivers door went slam
On the coast of gold(Ghana) where ethnic cultures intertwines like glittering and colourful 'bonwire' kente
A vibrant tapestry of diversity divine.
Starting from the South where the powerful Ashanti real heritage
Tracing to the Fante coastal tales of the sea
Across the Nzema fishing net cast upon the tides
To the Ewe's rhythmic abadza
And the atumpan of the Ashanti's that echoes
And rejoices to the dance adowa beating the soil.
Oh Ghana's culture, beacon of our pride
A tool for democratic thrive
The history and festivals like aboakyir, Samba and Kundum
stirs our spirit as the gleaming star of the east forces the earth to revolve around it
Ghanaian culture beauty blooms as democracy prevails within us
For Warrior King's culture, a tool we wield to build a generation graced with autonomy indeed.
The Black Volta spreads walks majestically as autonomy and democracy spreads it's wings
The symphony of highlife and Sankofa the mythical bird of the acient trumpet proverbs of those days
For it is not just the taste of our abunuabunu or the gold that adorn our neck that makes us take our stance
But Remember diversity of our culture
Warrior King's in diversity
In defence shall we fight and perish to bring the eagle full of might
Our culture unite
Our culture our voice
Our culture transforms and clear every blurrish sight
Let us all come together and celebrate Ghanaian culture the Genesis and revelation of democracy.
Thank you
”He is a Poet”, It was said of him.
And so they sought in proof a poem, made alone for them.
A tome for all the ages, every eye, and every ear.
Words of witness dedicating prose, to those would hear.
So he complied. Rolled up his muscled sleeve of thought
and pounding words like blacksmith sought, to swing them to his side.
For what is poetry but words, like cattle in stampeded herds,
or formal, business-structured, Oh so neat,
every word and every sentence measured to complete.
Why, he could write for days on end, make poetry, or just pretend,
as long as everything would just combine,
to give the folks their simple endless rhyme.
But this is not a poem, as It has no heart.
True poems come, not on demand, but as with art,
they are created by, an inspirations’ spark;
then guided by one's passion to their universal mark.
For what is poetry but prayer, holy in its plea
to set the heart of every person soaring ever free.
These words… these very words he wrote. He wrote for you;
that you would know the beauty in the moments shared, so few.
He could not give more love to you, than you already own;
if he might open all the hearts and souls of angels shone.
He could not add one ounce to all the joy you might allow
within each heartbeat, where we hear, the voice of God somehow.
A voice that whispers to us all, the word we need to grow,
"Love", the only word, a poets’ heart need ever know.
One time when I was in nursey school, Miss Shanahan had everyone sit in a circle and one-by-one say what we wanted to be when we grow up.
It was what you’d expect…
Doctor
Firefighter
Astro naught
Truck driver
Race car driver
Veterinarian
Police officer
Movie star
Baseball player
Actress
Princess
Detective
Engineer…and the like
Then it was my turn:
“What do you want to be when you grow up Bobby?”
I thought about it a minute, and said
“God.”
That threw her for a loop.
There was no braggadocio.
No narcissism, no conceit, no misplaced pride
I didn’t think I had a shot at it or anything.
Just seemed to me it would be the top job.
Can’t blame me.
As a poet I am told
I am a "maker" in Greek
I am a "seer" in Latin
taking words and plucking them
from the primordial void
plucking from the infinite fields
grazing in the tall lush grass
sucking on succulent peaches
in the golden brown sun
I take these words, images from
the Collective Unconscious Soup
and plug, upload them to the
constant I-Pod on playlist repeat
seeing the images which none
but myself can comprehend
I take those images
bringing them down
to the workshop
the smithy
the red-hot volcano
I set about to work
to craft
to make these thoughts and
expressions tangible
understandable to all
set up and ingrained in
the senses of the mind
permeating from above and now
reflected and palatable to everyone
Alone
atop a high tower of gargantuan
rock face terrain, standing alone
working and changing
swaying the elements
Earth under my feet
Wind caressing my hair
Fire in my heart
Water dripping into my soul
Maker, Seer, Artist
the poet takes each breath
and exhales the colossal creation
The wives wail for their fallen husbands' embrace,
The children's tears fall on their mothers' lifeless face,
Men beg for mercy from soldiers in the fray,
I weep, powerless to save them from this dismay.
Displaced and far from home,
Amidst the rubble, they're forced to roam.
Decaying remains of neighbors near,
A haunting sight that fills hearts with fear.
It's not just recovery they seek,
But survival, amidst chaos and bleak.
Innocent bones, a painful sight,
Desperate pleas for bread, day and night.
The children of olive trees weep, pleading the world for aid,
Their cries echo until they are silenced at last.
How many lives must be lost before we call it what it truly is, I ask
Not a conflict, but a genocide that’s paid.
The indigenous of the land nourish the earth with their tears
Their innocence shattered, dreams consumed by fears.
The planes fly above them, with terror in their eyes
One last breath until their light dies
The Arab nations, their laughter echoing from afar,
We watched fantasy films, cheering for the resistance star.
But when confronted with reality, we're labeled as siding with terror,
A narrative that seeks to silence and undermine, an unjust error.
Let the world hear their cries, their pain, and their plea,
To end the genocide, to set Palestine free.
May justice prevail, and peace be restored,
In Gaza, where tears flow, their spirits soar.
In stark terror,
the hard-liners had
announced; the morning
birds will not sing henceforth.
I was not interested-
in protecting myself.
The paradox had sneaked into
the fallen angel.
Waiting for the holy tree
to take some action.
The creeping killer was
going to occupy the rose bud’s land.
The love-goddess
was gone,leaving the lip-
marks on the cheeks
of glowing moon.
A pseudo-god upsets the
cart. A riot starts in the ravaged
garden to put on the leaves.
The grass was wailing.
Satish Verma
OCCUPATION DESTINATION
Hey, remember the flamboyant Mr and Mrs Black,
Heard they are back,
And in actual fact,
Mr. lost his job, gave his boss too much flak!
Employees had gone missing, it was reputed
That something strange,
Was actually in range,
The rumours could not be pinpointed or disputed!
The ‘Blacks’ had decided that their old occupation,
Was far more fun,
Son of a gun,
All this time they were in preparation!
They had looked up ancestors and kin,
Many were in Hungary India,
Greece, Bohemia and Serbia,
Their new, rather old lifestyle, was about to begin.
India was a bit far, rather the Slavic places,
Excitement was mounting,
And they began counting,
They remembered the 18th century faces!
And so, need to go into the evil and gory,
These vampires had a ball,
They had such gall,
Their pantry always full, and they, in their glory!
THE RAVEN'S OCCUPATION
You, Raven-- perch with cocky snap upon my window ledge--
Who has called you hence and bid you whisper out my name?
Is there a reason your wings swept my open glass?
Or, is it merely quirky Chance that tossed you in my life?
-- A wayward bit of sun ignites your glossy head--
You ignore the spotlight as you glance my way again
Are you wary watching as I waste away the day
Or are you counting errors as they tumble from my pen?