Best Thinkers Poems
In this world that I live in, man has lost over and over again.
He can’t win from his sins and he is damned.
He formed a country for his freedoms, but he enslaved people and
oppressed the origin and now he negates another.
When will he learned that forgiveness is not known.
That his tomorrows are his troubles for what he has done.
Hello (from) the other side.
I know I ruminate the mind.
Within the statuses of man, life is prominence to the power he has.
His significance is that of enslavement and oppression.
His freedoms he demanded brought him to our shores.
That of North America.
Once vacated, he manifested his vision.
His mission has become tainted and his life is unchained to do more evil.
Hello from the outside.
Your reflections - described.
Rune descents pit.
Symbolizing terrific fits.
Massive to suicide as they take lives.
Focus is occult.
Terror diabolically sought.
Will it stop - Will it stop now?
Hello (from) the other side.
A mind - revived.
Caucasoid
White boys
Who I speak of?
What is wrong with this world -
No true religion?
Are they atheist – non-believers?
Hello from the outside.
Harbinger of time...
A free thinker personified.
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Written January 16, 2016!
Big thinkers
with small thinkers
If you have some friends
Who are speaking
To much like parrots
And singing mornings
like cockroosters
They don't know the really meaning
Of keeping secrets ,
You are into big troubles
Because it is hard
For them to understand
The danger of taking
out some secrets.
As one of the big thinkers
Don't chase them
out of your life as they are
Small thinkers
Who need you more than
How you need them.
They still need to learn
More from you dear...
So stop telling them
Things which they can not bear
In their hearts
And continue to live
In peace with them.
June 20th /2023
By Alfonso Warally Ngengethe
Mussabwa Chris
Contained Thinkers
Media instruction
Teaching us morals
Unfolding our ethics
What to wear
What to eat
Leading us around like faceless meat
Showing us what’s right and wrong
What’s beauty define ugliness
How to be
These are lies you see
Locking us in our cage
We will run and buy your lies
Take advantage of us
Until we die
We were born
To understand slavery
We accept
A life without freedom
Where are the philosophers
Where have they gone?
We will not grow
We will not progress
If free thinkers
Philosopher’s minds
Are all locked up
Blinded by the American Dream
Promises of hope and change
We do not challenge
We do not try
Comfortable within their lies
By: Tim Lundmark
With out you I’m empty,
Empty and alone with my thoughts. When your attention does not occupy my mind the worst insecurities do. Everything is built around you,
My personality,
My priorities,
My goals,
My thoughts,
Each and everything revolves around you.
I wait anxiously.
For a reply,
For your approval.
I constantly watch the time and the door.
Listen for the recognizable roar,
Wait for the smell of exhaust and diesel.
Time spent waiting to hear from you.
I wonder aimlessly.
Where are you?
What are you doing?
Who are you with?
Are you okay?
Am I enough for you?
Is all this a waste of time?
Am I worth your time?
Do I look good enough for you?
Do these clothes bring out all the right things?
Did I hide the scars, stretch marks and every roll good enough?
Are you still interested?
Am I doing enough?
Is there still desire?
Do you still find me attractive?
Is there a reason why you seem so distant?
Your ambitions changed,
Why?
In the beginning you had been determined to forget her,
But to love me.
To help me forget him and love you.
Behind every smile and tear Is you.
Happiness has hidden in the streams that run down my face.
And pain hides behind the yellow stained smile that you said was beautiful.
Do you still think I’m pretty?
Am I still worth the time and effort?
Do you still see a future with me?
Do you look at other girls the way you should look at me?
It isn’t you that causes pain,
It’s the monstrous thoughts that dance through my brain.
It’s them, not you that causes a knife to cut.
It’s the fact that I have centered my whole damn life around you and continue to fail everyday.
It’s the fact that I love you more than myself and require my self-love from you that cause more pain.
But thank you for showing love to an over-thinker.
Tezra Rima Poem
Sponsor Regina McIntosh
my mind is playdough
hers is concrete
mine is maybe so
hers is quite neat
I am easily swayed
you can never change her mind
I am flexible and played
She is immovable you’ll find
my ideas are malleable
hers are absolute
I change my mind often
hers is always resolute
A Sequel to Paciolo Pen Saint’s No Thinkers Please
- - - - - - - - - - - -
*Where lies our Solomon ?*
When all the values of old plead not to die to the toxic virus of secularity
*Where lies our Solomon ?*
When the ocean of immorality wipes the print of the values of antiquity
Tell Me
*Where lies our Solomon ?*
When suicidal ropes are the best routes of escape to eternity
*Where lies our Solomon ?*
When we see liberality as a mean to kill every aspect of yesterday’s spirituality
Please think and tell me
*Where lies our Solomon?*
When we fight against religions and ordain immorality as a new form of religiosity
*Where lies our Solomon ?*
When babies unborn are aborted on the basis of their ‘mother’s right’; lo,our new reality
See
The world is suffocating from the monstrous acts of humanity
let’s open our eyes and stop this animality
There exists a generation of men,
Lavishly endowed with brainiacs,
Great souls already smitten and scourged,
but still invested with the dignity of immortality.
Nifty intellectuals from the Black race,
Arbiter of conducts with stabs at the back,
And gold medals on their chests,
Hearts from which fame sprang like sparks from an anvil.
They have influenced the world,
Yet, people are still wondering how they achieved that.
To the shallow minded men, it hits them like
A slow thought that crept like a cold worm through their brains.
I’m scribing about the free thinkers,
A name which sounds even now like the call of a trumpet,
A sodality devoid of fatal moral hollowness,
This might be deep almost as the mystery of life.
I’m one of them.
A mind, a fertile field,
sown with seeds of wisdom old,
and Nai Talim's gentle fold.
Each classroom,
a blossoming tree,
roots deep in Dewey's decree,
branching out,
a vibrant spree.
Words, like raindrops,
fall and fill,
gaps of understanding still,
with Freire's hope,
a whispered thrill.
Montessori's quiet,
purposeful space,
a womb of learning,
time and grace,
where children build their embrace.
A symphony of voices rises,
a chorus of diverse surprises,
in Gardner's many hues,
they thrive.
The belly of education swells,
with solutions, tales, and spells,
for every student, every school,
where all philosophies,
make their cool,
unfolding, potent,
sweet and whole.
A pregnant hush,
a hopeful sigh,
the future whispered from the sky,
a poem written, to try.
What do you think about
when you stare at the sky?
Thinking about tomorrows
or of the days gone by?
Maybe you hear angels
greeting those who have gone,
While I feel the teardrops
of those kept here too long.
Are your dreams still of youth,
full of bright futures to come?
And will you not grow old
before those dreams be done?
You might find the beyond,
that far and exotic place,
While I'll wake in the morn
with no footprints left to trace.
You'll reach sunshine through rain,
know the good times over bad;
You'll hold dear every name
of each friend you've ever had.
Then you'll never look back
at the forgotten unknown
As I walk the midnight streets,
so far behind and alone.
Well, America, I’ll tell you:
Religion for me ain’t been no picnic.
It’s had ticks,
And ants,
And grass deathly-brown---
Dead.
But through the years
I’ve been a-skatin’ on,
And fashioning circles,
And cheating God,
And sometimes drinking secrets of the dark
Void of compassion.
So, America, keep your backs against the wall.
Don’t rock your babies upon the knees of strangers
‘Cause you’ll find it’s quite careless.
Don’t you scream now---
For I’m still drinking, honey,
I’m still skatin’,
And religion for me ain’t been no picnic.
“we estimate tomorrow’s rainfall to be between two and 88 inches.”
that weatherman’s bound to be right, I told my husband.
“not if it doesn’t rain,” he replied.
“Or if it rains less than two inches,” said my mother.
The perils of watching TV with two critical thinkers.
I talked with the new moon tonight,
And asked: - How fast,
How slow
The seasons come and go,
The birds migrate, the grass is getting dry,
And not be late
In life,
In death,
At birth, how loud do we have to shout?
How long to stay?
And wait,
And count,
How slow, how fast we have to love,
And get a glimpse of quicksand,
A touch of a tear
When wrapped arms melt in waves,
How many steps?
The ocean, lying at your feet
Begging for your embrace,
How slow the clouds go, or
Stay
Still,
How long the gaze,
How slow the breath