Best Stoops Poems
Can You Imagine
In Our Planet
If one fine day..
All trees are given a chance to speak-
What will they speak to us?:
'What have you EGOISTIC humans
Caused to our ENVIRONMENT?'
If one fine day..
Mother Earth is given a voice
What will She say?
Her thunderous voice will echo
From her outer atmosphere:
'Stop polluting me NOW or
Bear the CONSEQUENCES'.
If one fine day..
All the money in the world is
Equally distributed
Amongst everyone
Then there will be:
'No POOR, No RICH'
If one fine day..
Our planet follows this rule:
Total darkness henceforth.
But only those that show humanity
Be blessed to see radiance of light:
'There will be NO INHUMANITY'
If one fine day..
All employers take this decision-
The only qualification needed
To acquire a job is-
'Good Character':
'Then parents will NEVER FAIL
To instill MORAL VALUES
Into their children'
If one fine day..
The infinite universe stoops down
To say something to us from above
What would that be?:
'To every human being out there
Prancing with pride:
You are NOTHING but
A GRAIN of SAND
In an ENDLESS desert.
So, stop being ARROGANT!'
His squarish jaw, waggles when he thinks,
holding his fingers entwined at his waist.
He stares past his silvery frame, sinks
into mind, until I break in and say hi.
His thin silvery hair, is plush with curls at neck.
He stoops over as if time has weighed in
I see him counting, saying what the heck
here’s a bird, a butterfly, noisy squirrels.
His hands have a pain in them, all webbed
inside, pulling muscles taut, but they wave
they stroke the air, my legs, the seas ebbed
the sand, the sky, building the future in mind.
And when he picks up his violin mistress,
he dances her, never still this man of mine.
His harmonica hoots the day’s stresses,
digging out his soul, bending him like grass.
Sometimes I have to silence his motions,
hold him close to heart, let him sleep.
But always he plays out his commotion
making me music, making him mine.
On an old bicycle, he pedals the streets
finding a steady supply of following feet
"Here comes the balloonwalla", in unison they scream
clamoring for the balloon of their dreams
Each one gets one at rupees five a piece
leaving a tiny little pair of hands empty
Just when tears well up disappointment droops
the balloonman with a flourish, downward stoops
Pulls out a little piece of blue with a twinkle in his eye
happiness smiles end to end as the balloon grows as big as the sky
Tiny hands cannot grab the big blue thing
so he ties it to the little finger with a string.
Afroze Ali
date: July 19th 2011
For Francine's contest 'Happiness is a balloon'
(the Balloonwalla is a man who sells balloons, on his bicycle is attached a pump to blow the balloons.)
Hey YOU,
Yes, I’m talking to YOU
Please listen to me…
You used to comment on almost every poem
But you don’t visit me of late
So I have to ask the question,
Why has your support turned to hate?
Actually… don’t bother answering that
because now I know
A little bird told me the reason why
They’ve been advised on 'twofacedbook'
NOT to comment on my poems.
It's a sad fact they did not deny.
So we have a puppeteer who pulls so many strings
Sadly, blinkered marionettes keep dancing
to tunes and keep doing these petty things.
Well, to be honest I’m glad you’ve cut the ties
It’s a pity folks can’t make up their own minds
and not listen to malicious gossip and lies.
12/22/17
Background to the poem. I made a comment on a poem about a lack of reads and comments recently. Totally out of the blue another person informed me they had been requested via twofacedbook not to comment on my poems but thankfully they took no notice of this. They did not mention who is behind it and to be honest I don’t want to know, but I am just sad that someone stoops so low.
Comments or no comments I will continue to write and be an active member of the soup community and will deterred from posting on soup
Photo: RIVERVIEW AMUSEMENT PARK
~POSTED BY MY GUARDIAN ANGEL~
We were just kids in silken ribbons and braids,
Playing cut-outs in Chicago's summers toasty shade.
The clanging streetcars ran in front of our homes.
Who cared, we were licking delicious ice cream cones!
There was no such scare as " sugar is evil."
Anymore than the chance, that we'd find an intrepid boll weevil.
There was no TV till we were a tad older.
But we went to movies every Saturday and laughed so hard that
we cried on each others shoulders.
We shopped at Woolworth's Dime Stores.
Bought "Blue Waltz" cologne and little lockets, girls our age adored.
The big treat was going to magical Riverview Amusement Park,
The alchemy of the stars made it totally magic.....after dark.
Swimming back in the oceans of my heart's time,
I see how God blessed me to read books and learn how to rhyme.
Mom and Dad bought me many books.
I had a roll top desk, such a lovely, bright wooden look.
We loved saddle shoes, boy were they cool.
We'd sit and polish them,so lovely,we would drool.
We sat on the stoops and watched men in uniform, go to war.
Some sadly, with our tears, we saw their blue eyes no more.
On your back porch we sat on the great family swing.
Hearing songs and stories-the essence of my past,is so overpowering!
10/31/2020
Tribute to Joanie, my best friend since age seven!
Thanks for decades of memories!
Love, Panagiota
Every November, Harlem hums
coquito chilling, collards cooking,
a holiday approaching
that never sat right with me.
Before the parades, the plates,
my mind slips past the pretty lies
we paint over pain
and calls it “Thanksgiving.”
I think about Columbus
the way they crown him a hero
when really
he sparked the unraveling
of my whole bloodline.
Taino shores stained red.
Africans dragged into ships.
A continent bent under the weight of his footsteps.
And every year,
I whisper the same wish:
“If only I could turn back time…”
That’s when the sand rises
lifting out the sidewalk cracks,
spinning into an hourglass storm.
Suddenly I’m in 1492,
staring at the moment
everything went left.
Columbus stands on his deck,
smug, boots tapping out the rhythm
of centuries of sorrow.
And my whole soul wants to stop him
one push,
one word,
one shift in the timeline.
But the sand flickers
and replaces him with worse.
A conqueror history hid
because his cruelty
couldn’t fit on clean white pages.
He doesn’t want gold.
He wants erasure.
The sand darkens.
Across the ocean, Africans fade
not freed,
just gone,
executed on their own soil
before they could ever become ancestors.
The Caribbean I know
Bomba drums,
Taino caves,
abuela’s laughter in Loíza
collapses into dust
so fast I begin fading with it.
I reach for Harlem
its stoops,
its music,
its cultures braided like my own DNA
but my hand slips through the city
as if I’m a ghost
in a world that never had a reason
to make me.
If I change the past,
I erase myself.
I erase my people.
The sand spins like it’s teaching me
with every grain.
Then suddenly
a softer shimmer.
The scene resets.
Columbus steps off the boat humble,
listening.
The Taino greet him without fear,
teaching him how to walk the land
without breaking it.
Years later, Africans arrive
not in chains,
but in hope.
By choice.
Bringing rhythm, language, strength,
building a true America
with the Taino
side by side.
The hourglass rights itself.
Harlem returns
alive, loud, imperfect,
but real.
And I breathe.
I can’t change the past.
But I’m the proof
that my ancestors made it through
anyway.
(I discovered the poem below in a drawer I was clearing out - it is certainly mine, but I have
no idea when, or why, I wrote it; I have not changed a word of it, but left it as it is)
Don't wait for me
Where the black moment stoops towards the day
I'll be fine, you'll see.
The night is kind, the sweetness of
The breeze, the still greater darkness of all things unseen.
Who needs the morning
The crack of dawn
The break of day
The fast fall of footsteps on shocked concrete
The shrill call of blackbirds
As the bottles topple like skittles, but into place.
No, the night is kind,
Where the serpents stalk in slithers
And unhinged mothers go in
search of their lost children;
Where tree-branches scratch against windows
Without drawing blood.
Where ravens-in-waiting cluster
Around the thought of death.
What need have I for
The last cold grip of
Your lost hand, lost to him,
Against the wrenching light of day?
I loved you once;
Go now, somewhere else another waits.
It is the lesser pain.
From Harlem's pulse, a symphony untold,
Stories etched in a brownstone, dreams unfold.
Streetlamps pierce the twilight, jazz ignites,
Hope flickers, a flame against the nights.
Laughter rings on stoops where neighbors meet,
Gospel choirs rise, voices strong and sweet.
Stony sidewalks hold a million strides,
Asphalt dreams where destiny confides.
Stars peek through the rooftops, reaching high,
A silent promise whispered to the sky.
From Harlem's struggle, a spirit takes flight,
Soaring upwards, bathed in heavenly light.
"Colorful language is the best way to recreate the incident as it happened and to picture it for the audience". Dale Carnegie
______________________________________________________________
O, colors, enthrall us through their splendor
Infuse the mundane world with vivid shades
Dazzle with hues and send a melody so tender,
No harp plays a role in tunes or serenades.
Lush velvet stains lips and hands with blackberry
Ripe grapes drenched in bright, blithesome lands
A colorful kaleidoscope lies in a flower vase—airy,
A sparkle that imbues the shadows and expands.
Olive and amber—ripening akin to wheat,
Grating upon nerves, a symphony so sweet
I love color, from flaming reds to vivid greens.
Royals flaunt purple, a sight that sheens.
Flaming reds and vivid greens—I adore
Royal flaunting purples, I simply can't ignore.
If I were the color blue, I would sing a halcyon song.
Leave you frantic—recalling your youth for days long.
I hold my breath as sapphire skies spread.
Vast quietude, serene—filling my head
Rainbows, prisms—tinsel glitter galore,
A wheat harvest of yellow—a sight to adore
Ripples and runs—floats and flies,
Subtle shades and sheen, colors that mesmerize.
Crimson and azure—glowing with grace,
The purity of white is a vague oasis to embrace.
A streak of gray brought heaven to earth
Crackled turquoise, vivid glow of calm sea worth,
As a slow hawk stoops—prey in the deep,
The sunflower droops; a lazy wave creeps.
The wind sleeps—swirling in dazzling links,
And loops, creating a symphony that never sinks
The crickets chime their pauseless rhyme,
And the colors run—toward the sun climb.
Before the wind feet, in the wheat, they stun.
The green of elms—a sage discourse troll,
Hemlock green, oaks, and juniper trees spun,
A color symphony, one actor—this world scrolls,
A never-ending show of beauty and poetry.
Crafting a lasting metaphor of beat and symmetry
A magnificent show of shadows and brightness.
O, hues, how you seduce my air with lightness.
They sit on splintered stoops
sun setting in the hazy dust
coated with the days play
drooping daisies awaiting a breeze.
©9/11/2019
Town Children Poetry Contest
Julia Ward - sponsor
In the dim and distant past, i cycled around
Slow and fast, past sleepy houses, on small city blocks.' In the morning fresh when its not yet hot ' sometimes a daring
Cat shot in front, aloof and sleek, no play for me then on bots..I recall the rich sent of
Fresh cut lawn, before the day would swallow, this placid morn' i recall milk bottles sitting on front door stoops, as pidgeons scattering, as the hawk broke loose, out a of a blue yonder, with whistling
Wings, echoing the sound of my bike wheels, as i turn for home i hear the church
Bell ring.'
Something eats away at him
buries the past, blurs the future
grabs the soul and won’t let go
But what is it, pray tell
clinging to the bottom
of his being…
Caterwauling through dark alleys
gunshots pierce hazy air
madmen in rags sprawl on
stoops of wear and tear…
A confession crosses his parted lips
the truth being – Does he even care
to stop and smell what’s there
or pause to pluck a red rose rare
With stretched brows, while sitting in a corner
I look up from my specs just out of love.
As she lays food on table and stoops lower
Snipes me from grace of her body thereof.
With eyes on her I come there as if drugged
Feeling tickling smell of the hot soup.
Now she puts a sheaf of flowers in a jug
And pours in water pressing it in group.
I see how the necks and cups get entwined
With the curls of her hair and points of crest.
See how at each stalk her waist curves defined
Budding, abloom in the shape of her breasts.
Soup and food lay cold and my body warm
As she swirls and whirls her skirt like a storm.
+++
December 15, 2014
Form: Sonnet (Pentameter)
First Place win
Best of 2014 by Carol Eastman
Boys do boys BREAKS toys. Knick knack paddy wack. Give. A dog. A bone.
Some say the things that boys do are wrong and even more wrong still.
Pushing a go cart up a steep steep hill. Wrestling down steps and falling.
Breaking bones. Being home alone. Fire crackers one two three STOP spitting
On me.
REPEAT REPEAT REPEAT
Boys even when they're right they're wrong. Boys are strong. They are
Triumphant on mix martial arts and wrestling night. They need a place here in
SOCIETY. They need their own show and tell month. What week? What's a week?
Fighting through one trillion trillion jeers. Not wanting to show their fears.
THE MEDIA COMES THE QUICKER
Fearing vulnerability boys are nothing but the brunt of solid steel with DIAMOND
Spikes. Many boys are MELLOW but spell WE DO RAISE HELL. Some might
Think boys do things for SPITE. Such as staying alive? Or flying a kite?
Boys but when dark is night stay inside. At DIFFICULT times they fight even when
They're right thinking they are strong. MAYBE they are wrong?
Wrestling tearing fisting clenching cursing spitting stomping reaching for his own
Fate. Suffering alienation and hate. What he wants he gets one way. (Sparing no grace) or another. All in all in all. Some boys walk a CHALK line and are fine.
In the light of the life of things this is how it is. Boys are STRONG. They go long.
THE MEDIA THE CONDEMNATION THE VILIFICATION: Boys are bursting through malls tearing down walls shooting guns on the run.
Nothing but boys will be boys. Nothing is truth until it is seen through the eye of a boy
Keen. Gangs, tussles and physical rebuttals. There those tails wagging of puppy dogs,
Yeah boy! You got SWAGGER you got sway. Football gear and baseball cards yeah all
Hard. Make way for shooting hoops hanging on stoops
TRACES OF MANHOOD TO DATE. BEEN NEVER A MAN WHO HASN'T BEEN A BOY.
ENJOY!! GOOD FATE!!
Glancing down from breathless heights,
Amidst climey sighs,
The looming colossus awakens from slumber
And stretches across Thelwalls linear skies.
The hot engines hissing steam -
Recalled from fond memories long back -
Tumbling like huffing little rain clouds
Down from the lofty metal track;
Wherein brightly painted carriages:
The publicans daughter, the verger,
The magistrate, the chief executive -
Seated first class, all habitually sat.
Swift grandiose arches, a celebration
Trumpeting the artful masons cunning devise,
Boast loudly of the great towers
Parallelogram of terrific forces:
Crossing over in giant leaping strides.
Here below, like Hercules reclining,
The stoic gates of Latchfords black fortress locks
Lift to brace against the immense swell
Far and beyond the chimming remarks
Of Greenhalls absolute, mechanically proven,
Georgian bell;
When, ensconced within a purpose-built,
Purple brick tower:
Strikes the centuries old brewery clock
On the twelfth
Of every God given hour.
A rich bankers cantilever
Pushes doggedly against opposing, sheer,
Red Sandstone walls;
Again the mauve and azure rock pigeon claps...
And then...coo, coo, cooingly calls.
Dry buzzing heat blurs over
The hum of a high noons imcumbent midday;
The coup-de-gras scimitar wing stoops -
To fasten onto its slower-witted prey!
Steeped sides slipping amidst tumbling yellow
Gorse and sporadic flowers
Balk at the foreboding waters edge,
Where, over the denizens swirling bowers,
The resolute little rusting lugger,
Puffing and chugging,
relentlessly dredges and scours;
Churning the murky Eastham silts
That drab Manchester draw:
Into the vast hollowing quays
On beachless, concrete Salfords industrialized,
High-rise dockland shore.
Through the deepest part of the black
Channel
A salt grimed hulk smoothly slips...
Attached by a twisted hemp to the tugboat
That hauls the great ships.
Stirred by the bow waves
Flowing and ebbing like currents in time:
From the trough to the peak
The jettison and flotsam climbs -
Before succumbing to powerful undercurrents
Of irresistible designs!