Best Pamphlet Poems
A whistling wheezing hamlet, whispering and emanating, tunes euphonic,
In a remote isolated valley, far-flung from the abode of the temporal,
Warbling quietly to whistle scads of tranquil cryptic songs;
Lying spasmodic, a sparsely inhabited mellifluous hamlet, Kongthong!
Not to hyperbole, a singing utopia, uncustomary to the core!
Where innate and mellow are the naive dwellers' rustic tinkling timbres!
A rover's riddle, the natives' pride, a unique heritage, their blissful strains!
Ringing with an ancient tradition of tune-giving in honour of the root ancestress,
Customary to the matrilineal surviving unknown folk of the thorp!
The chirping region's dispositions and practices outlandish, vague and obscure,
Primitive and bizarre, mere to merge with nature's absolute accord!
Voices buzzing in whistles, murmuring and chattering, lilting,
Arcane, pervading the virgin thicket of the sacred thorpe!
To entangle, passerby and wanderers in dream like metaphors!
Those magical murmurs in quirky tunes, mingling the breeze of the secluded hamlet, intoning own tinkles!
Blessed are the tuning terrain's offsprings, nameless!
Rared by ditties, hailed sacred by the clan's conviction!
Outlying, by the uninhabited enchanting wilderness of East Khasi Hills,
Sleeping quietly the untrodden, nature's lulling lullaby, the whistling Kongthong!
Yell! Immaculate and serene, the saga of their undeciphered airs, mumbling in exquisite ethos!
Inimitable and gripping to eye, how the denizens of the tribe,
Are crooning to dub and call each other by indigenous intonations!
Pitching and whooshing, to tune their melodic identities unique!
Whew! The picturesque terrain is tweeting, whooping, and whizzing!
Heaven! Bless anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
The ringing Kongthong, God's own whistling hamlet!
While rambling like a vagabond in a seraphic poetic submersion, in a remote region, witnessed the most captivated sight ever,
a sleeping valley rippled in wild blooms, as sparkling in mystical celestial beam, in the mesas of the clouds, the Dzukou Valley,
a remote dale at the border of Nagaland and Manipur,
in the untrodden tableland of India's Northeast!
The picturesque landscape was ringing with the
once in a lifetime scene of emerald shades of hillocks
paving the way for azure mountaintops,
luminous flowers waving in the winds amongst the tall grasses!
The vale was tweeting and twirling amidst the virgin vegetations enriched with the spectacular sights of verdant forests,
exquisite flora and fauna,
serpentine streams, myriads of panoramic pink
and white wild blooms that dot
the vast caldera of the valley and its' verdant meadows,
alongside the meandering rivers of Dzukou and Japfu,
appeared as the absolute paragon of serenity and tranquility!
Surrounded by the whispering platonic hills,
with numerous colorful flying creatures,
the valley seemed as smuggled over
the dewdrops' fragrant feral fruits,
Oak and Rhododendron forests are a feast to the eyes!
Half way up and any signs of tracks disappear,
and one is just left with wheezing enigmatic bamboo thickets!
Botanists' delight, trackers' paradise, seraph's psyche,
rovers' riddle, is reclining placidly ,
the untrodden earth's lulling lullaby,
in the abode of the divine Lily's
anomalous nature's absolute pamphlet,
a rich biodiversity hotspots
of endemic species, the Dzoku Valley;
an uninhabited unsullied phosphorus valley
Note:
The Dzüko Valley is located at the borders of the states of Nagaland and Manipur in Northeast India. The valley is known for its extremely rich biodiversity, seasonal flowers and flora & fauna. It is situated at an altitude of 2452 m above sea level.
© Silpika Kalita
Let’s fly to the celestial fiesta of the cherry blossom,
In the North Eastern Region of Shillong, named, “The Scotland of the East,
The abode of the cloud,” in the lush mesa of the magnetic Meghalaya!
The wheezing Pine forest of the whispering waterfalls in the Khasi hills,
is bustling with the nature’s fairytale of pink, white and ivory!
As far as the eyes can see, the rolling tableland is ringing, ridden by the radiant petals of cherries!
Neither Japan, nor Paris, a mere remote region of Indian plateau,
Glowing in nature’s sublime glory of pellucid picturesque pinks!
Nicknamed, Prunus Cerasoides, the cherry blossoms,
a delightful boon of Himalayas,
are blooming profusely in the magical
verdant highland of the East Khasi hills!
The November is rippling with
moonlit music, plethora of flamboyant folk dances,
pageants, stalls to cater to the globetrotters’ penchant for the ethnicity
of the fur-flung region’s tribes’ cuisines, wine, arts and cryptic crafts!
Such bedazzling is the serenity of the panaromic platonic plateau,
As folks of the vicinity, are traversing despite the rampant pandemic,
to glimpse the shangri la of the richest biome of the floral magical lane!
The resonating frolic of the chirping and twittering from the cheerful cherry bushes
are teeming with the twirling bliss, intoning,
in winters whistling whiff!
A nature’s bounty, a pamphlet of picturesque hamlets’ terrains of aromatic sensuous purity!
Blessed are they, who have witnessed the once in a lifetime scene of crystal clean roaring rivulets, murmuring brooks, the ravishing orchids, quirky root bridges, aesthetic lakes and rills, scented wild flowers, encompassing the enigmatic cherry blooms of the mystic land of the majestic mountains!
An euphoria to have a ride amidst the clouds of the misty moorlands,
gliding languidly to take the signature of the mementos of the moments;
to kiss the plateau of wild orchids, flowering Cherries and sacred woodlands of those Khasi hills,
crackling with the sprouting, cherry blossom festival of the far East!
"Where does it hurt?"
She asks, clipboard like a shield,
pen cocked like a firing pin.
"Here," I say,
pointing to the silence just beneath my ribcage.
Not the lungs. Not the liver.
The place where sorrow goes to calcify.
They send me down long corridors,
all white noise and flickering fluorescents—
like memory on a bad day.
I wear a gown that opens in the back,
like every conversation I regret.
Inside the machine,
I lie still as a kept secret.
The MRI growls like an old god,
searching my insides
for evidence of war crimes.
I think about the shrapnel—
not metal, but moments.
The look she gave me
the night everything broke,
like she was already ghosting
through the wreckage of my voice.
I tell the technician:
It’s there. I can feel it.
Each breath razors against it.
But the scan is clean.
No foreign objects. No narrative.
They call it “psychosomatic”
like it’s a compliment,
like my body is staging a play
my mind refuses to direct.
Back in the doctor's office,
she says, "There's nothing inside you."
And I laugh—sharp and wrong.
Isn't that what pain is?
The something that feels like everything
and shows up as nothing?
I ask if she can x-ray a metaphor.
She doesn’t smile.
Just types and nods and offers
a pamphlet on stress management
as if I haven't already built
cathedrals from my coping mechanisms.
I leave with no diagnosis—
just a quiet war still raging
beneath my skin.
A soldier in peacetime,
saluting ghosts
that never made it
into the file.
A personality fertilized by favour to be heaven’s pet
of her creation, on tenderness, maturity and beauty flirt
flexible and elastic but no one’s puppet
a mountaintop of womanhood to make existence wet
her smiles of perfection, sweeping nature off a heavy carpet
eyes of fantasies, drawing all butterflies and bees in a jet
with skin moisturized by virtuous and vitalized oils
to put love and lust to a heated bet
a million hearts looking up her warm welcome to get
to her acceptance, a multitude of minds are ready and set
yet, clean and white is her huge public pamphlet
the reflection of the galaxies are entrapped in her net
to enjoy the refreshments of time, dine with life and eat omelet
as her future stands to no surrender of bullets or dirt
she’s a passerby to my heart but a lasting cutie my mind has met.
Dedicated to Dr. Uche (A colleague of mine)
the cultivators
taught how to walk and talk
they approached as a group
each with a bowl of bread
given unto them by a lord
trying to speak and be strong
i said, "time moves along,
it, can't stand here all day
in contest.....i say...you say"
then they all talked at once
in different directions
throwing corrections
at everything i'd pronounce
my resources mustered
as their actions grew flustered
as my patience waned
at their reactions
their creations grew louder,
i said, "just cut the chowder,
leave now please, and don't come back"
the storm eased and mine was the final thunder clap
long since when
i've not seen them again
i can tell you they are much less
than sourly missed
in fact they've dropped off
their radar somewhere else,
excepting, of course
for their last recourse
(every once in a while)
a pamphlet at the door
(Another childhood poem)
A pamphlet file in green metallic
thrusts through neon antinight
its cornered self, harsh in glare.
Piers of five-tiered fingers --
shelves -- extend beyond,
in series: a formal pattern,
rectangular and angular.
Artificial electric shine reflects
bland or blatant color.
There are books, some in disarray
in order placement on the shelves.
All: solid, relentless, inflexible.
And most were made for use
by patterns much more rigid still.
A program is pending. Kids are milling around,
ending the day on the fall afternoon.
A pamphlet about war is displayed on each desk,
ignored by the class, who are restless, at best.
Just a few books are opened, at the teacher's request
There's a strange mix of whispering, laughter, and squirming.
Chairs have been scooted to make extra room
No one much caring that a speaker is due.
They are just in a hurry to finish the day.
To leave with their friends, get on with their lives…..
The noise in the room hums like bees in hive
A guest soon appears, without much fanfare
Slow is his gait, from a limp. And they stare
how it takes him a moment to gather his words.
His gaze drifts away, to something reserved
His face marked of age, furrows deeply endowed
But, as his story unfolds, ...and the quiet takes hold,
all the air in the classroom is breathless and cold.
And so,.. left behind are scars of the truth
that will mark them forever, give them a cruel
lesson of life, lesson of death, lesson of courage, and much more respect
This was not just a movie, a book or a tale
But truth beyond fiction, a story of hell
The remains of his youth, are now left in their hands
to change what could happen, and never forget
With far-away eyes, and with sage not denied
The frail little man has made the room cry
Their tears brim with outrage, compassion and vows
The room has gone silent, but his light will shine on
The dust motes have settled, sun silvers his hair
Enlightenment enters where dark once appeared
The world at the window is now theirs to own
Somehow grown older……..they watch the man go
with the tears of their sorrow, on a fall afternoon
I have my constitution
which exists in the tablets of my mind,
It's not an illusion,
but an ally, a friend,
A guide to perfection,
Perverts the way of the pervert,
A guide to perfection
for the immortal, mortal and mortality.
There is a constitution,
Perpetuated by coercion,
Written by human distortion,
With zigged and zagged expectation,
Oriented to insufficiency,
Loops that our leaders pay to see,
Whose sowers sow carefully,
lest they close their own way.
Of a doctrine hollow I know,
Often planted on the way of justice,
Where the little of a cobbler is taken,
To spare the enthusiasm of a regime,
A policy set out for heaven,
But creates hell just before,
When infants survive just long enough,
To witness the state-of-the-art slaughter of their beloved.
An outline of legal malpractices,
constitution of an immoral basis of morality,
Thieves defining the principle of equity,
Harlots given virgin reception,
A fugitive in the state house,
A constitution which siphons justice,
Is your pamphlet of statements,
Written in pencil and erased in ink.
That's not my constitution,
Which differentiates between a ***** and hero,
Implemented sparingly by hungry lawyers,
Who when full do more harm,
To warrant extermination of infants,
And offer them a premature state burial,
Where man slaughters his kinsmen,
For the interests of a constitution.
Written 15/06/2012 MUTHOKA JACOB.
A reaction to failed confidence in the constitution whose makers become the prefects over its interpretation.
London’s Guildhall, John Lilburne is frogmarched in
A man Cromwell considered a friend,
To stand before him accused of high treason
His actions against parliament to defend
As radical leader of the ‘Levellers’
John opposed Parliament fervently,
With his clandestine printing network
Speaking out of its tyranny;
Power, John Lilburne argued
Belonged with the common man,
His pamphlet ‘Agreement of the People’
Defined how, in the ‘Levellers Plan’.
In ‘England’s New Chains Discovered’
He urged soldiers and citizens, ‘unite-
Reject the rule of the Grandees!’
He was arrested and charged with mutinous incite.
Cromwell brought him to the Guildhall
Amid the strictest security
Troubled his trial would cause civil unrest,
Such was John’s popularity
Although eventually acquitted and exiled
He lived the rest of his life a marked man,
And our constitution, today, owes its birth
To the ideals of his ‘Levellers Plan’.
oh the distill
to fly the sky
I saw a garbage bag in the clouds
how could it makes it so hight
as I dropping my arms and legs
grew a pair of wings
going to China
and shared some barbecues
for the rescue
of lost birds
not knowing where
is north
the moon so confusing
with so many windows
but sure put my flag there
all stars and stripes
and a lack of oxygen
or call it gravity
I tend to my garden
not eden what's in a name
the boa I constrict
the horse to trot
the avenues
and the ventures
car traffics
the roads
of the rorschachs
and the last hamburger
must be germany
to eat the bun
oh no just a computer
with hefty bills
to eat you all
as my habit to drink coffee
Nespresso every morning
with almond milk
I got it free of charge
not reading their pamphlet
in chinese
gee saved myself 200 hundreds
and the coffee is good
must I've learn from Morocco
beef beaf what is your meat
to tell me the protest
of greens the goat climbing the tree
of argane or archaid
just a monkey
blinding my eyes
a mouth to silence
and ears not listen
but a look at the clouds
Let me drape upon you a written robe,
beautifully indexed on your tablet.
My! you look divine,
off we go to dine on literary flavours and liquid verse.
A five chapter meal we just published.
This evening with you was a stunning essay read like a swift summary.
Narrating your life’s novel,
I record and archive,
citing the volume of your smile,
punctuating the exclamation of your eyes.
May I undress you with my pen,
printing kisses on your pamphlet lips.
Nonfiction foreplay is the order of the day
with teasing stanzas and touching tomes.
Your skin the clear scroll,
we edit with rhetoric as I explore the fiction of your passage.
The lexicon of your moans, would a fine manuscript make.
This plot you will review then quote.
You descend from that last paragraph,
this memory shelved high in your canon.
My pen has woven for you a silk word blanket;
as you lay on my journal pillow;
wrapping you in the epigraph of my affection.
all It takes to become American
a voice and patience
as the guy for the interview never asked me the flag
as I am not here for a driving test
and read your pamphlet ********
just give me the seal and will pay to get a passport
but for sure walk to the statue of liberty to give a bow
as I took allegiance and went to the post office
Election Day Footles
Non-Voters
Passive
Asses
Unenrolled Voters
Selection
Defection
Last ditch pitch
Stand out
Hand out
Crumpled and pitched
Pamphlet
Spam-let
3/3/2016
This is a circus,
led by strange looking folks,
clowns, freaks all dressed up to entertain us,
This act is a joke,
From consumer engineering to high class clowns with toys
The illusion of having, but having no soul,
Cause you believe in materialistic things,
Disguised as meaningful things,
The deception set by these clowns,
The great joke, as we lose our self in this show,
The star glow,
Its all in the script, the pamphlet
Given in the main entrance,
This is a freak show
The money made by these folks from each joke,
Pick the main theme you believe in
From politics, culture, to religion
Its all designed to wire you
Capture the mind, soul and body,
Its part of the entertainment,
The wide audience base
They set to differentiate us,
So its easy to keep schedule
and entertain the mass
While they take our cash
The permanent penalty of living