I let the roar
Of the waterfall
Drown out
The doubt,
The pain,
The longing,
The fear.
I climbed a large rock,
My fear already churned in the rapids,
And surveyed the river
Below…
My self a naked feast for the flies.
And,
Drying in the sun,
I shed the weight of apathy.
The fear tried
(It tried)
To come up for air
But,
I held it down with a river rock
As
I bared my teeth in defiance.
A sound,
Like a rumble,
Burbled up from my gut
And broke above the roar
Of the falls,
Soaring it began as a low growl:
“No you don’t! Not…no not…
And triumphed with:
“Not Today!”
©?2026TaraHicks
A winter has come into our forest
I have no idea exactly how long
I was merely a long-lost tourist
And now I see of all our leaves are gone.
Nothing damages more than a hard frost
The landscape lay injured and strained
All of the critters are scattered and lost
A sad reminder of all of the pain.
The Winter was here longer than I know
Ravaging more than I could foretell
Above my knees in the freezing snow
Stuck in the sad foliage of farewell.
I take a plow and push through the past.
Bury the blade into our history.
I pick through ice for a mere blade of grass
Any sign of life spells my victory.
I come upon the knotted root of the oak
A fork left on a meal of an empty plate.
The tears from my eyes beginning to soak
The jagged legs that mark my mistakes.
Roots are strong and full of wisdom
They are churned inside the earth so deep
Between these toes is quite the schism
Loud enough to wake me from my sleep.
The branches lurch toward Heaven so high
The stark, black fingers reach towards the Sun
I pray that Spring comes back into our lives
That we can return where we once begun.
The bodies lay in rigid rows,
each one with tag upon their toes.
Some with names: Teddy, Frank, or Joe;
but most are simply marked John Doe,
some torn apart; some no one knows.
The sky is full of cawing crows
and heavy with the winter snows;
while in the churned up mud below,
the bodies lay.
They fought those they were told were foes
in battles that they never chose;
“It is your duty, off you go.”
“Good man, chipper! Jolly good show.”
They know not where; I don’t suppose
the bodies lay.
Finding Balance
[Verse 1]
I feel the weight of the world on my soul,
Burnt out on the streets, just trying to feel whole.
Turned like a page, I got lost in the grind,
Churned like butter, too many thoughts on my mind.
Sauerkraut dreams, where’s the joy?
[Chorus]
As crazy as myself, yet still I stand,
From stealth bombers to sunshine, I take my chance.
[Verse 2]
Brussels over booze, it’s a healthier choice,
Got some new moves, got to listen to my voice.
Hit the snooze button, but I am awake at dawn,
I do NOT mean to be a glutton, just carrying on.
A plan is set, I will be alright,
Fight the good fight, you got the right.
[Chorus]
[Outro]
Hooray, just let it play,
I am stoked to get the chance to even see my son today.
Home
Songs
Tumi mor pao nai porichoy
Clueless unborn thou art my song
The song for so long flew was not known, a long gone for so long soaring unborn
Adored the floral fragrance in, gone dried in mundane time left behind
The glow was an off beat startled, not to be, a neverland to greet beside.
The gust of a windy high, never there, never to try to recite , alongside
Come along my pensive sorrow, come along my kindled candle, burning strong
Come along for the valiant cause to stand headstrong through the darkest depth of the long
Death and her kissing diva, may find and so shall the cause be, the innermost song
With the pensive, painstaking , overcoming a morbid with a churned in mayhem
To greet them all , and all, undefeated, never in another succumbed in Bethelhem.
Raga: voirabi
rythm:kaharba
composition (bangla): 1332
composition (after christ): 1925
lyricist: dinendranath thakur
Copyright © Tamanna Ferdous | Year Posted 2025
117.
Branch on Fire
Up above the tree
Of courage and bravery
It fell down lazily
To burning trash underneath thee
Then a beast to man a bestfriend
Came by as if to defend
This twig from being churned
In order to be mend
From stone the twig was gone
Going elsewhere for a run
With its host like an Olympian
As if chasing the sun.
-04/16/2012
(Dumarao)
*for Crim. poem in Salingsing Issue of 1st Sem., AY 2011-12
You get familiar
with the fall of the land,
follow a gentle slope of words
down to the shore
where water punctuates
time with waves.
All becomes a poem,
washing up
metaphor upon metaphor,
meaning forming on the wide,
tide swept beach,
whisperings in the chambers
of seashells, white sand
carrying the remains
of the churned passions
of the sea. Love distills
to a warm, soft breeze
nuzzling into a still
drowsy morning.
It began low,
in the damp cellar of the sea,
where star-ash soured into brine.
Alchemic mud heaved upward,
vomited from vents and wounds,
a million drifting scraps of almost-life
black streamers waving
as if testing for breath.
I was there
or something that would become me,
salted and blind,
carried inland with the silt
of forgotten shores.
Angel-hair filaments brushed past
like nerves learning pain,
snowflake cells stumbled and split,
tripped over themselves
in the green dark.
The cauldron churned,
rain-beaten, fever-swollen,
and beneath its scum-slick skin
an eye squinted open,
not knowing what it saw.
The vessel woke.
The universe shuddered,
and the sea rocked itself
as if soothing a crying child,
webbed with light,
heavy with wanting
each of us a note
from that first wet music,
each of us carrying the ocean
in our blood,
remembering, dimly,
it was me.
Raw fury embellishes the soul,
Of a cold cruel world
They watch black burn -
Not a stomach churned
Evil is too kind a word,
For the mentally disturbed
Countless black lives suffer -
All in the name of projection
The hate they feel is the hate we receive
No amount of explanation could fathom any reason
Yet they claim it is, we, that deserves treason
Our skin classified as a crime against humanity
The real crime - their uninhibited savagery
Freedom cost nothing,
Yet they market it as a luxury
Only the white man is afforded
We aren’t even afforded the right to be seen as,
Treated as -
Human
Even the oxygen we breathe is a sparsity
Stealing the air we breathe becomes their favourite hobby,
They treat our lungs like it’s their property
And yet somehow they’ve convinced the world that we are the enemy
Swan floating along
Water churned by its feet
Lily passing by
cold
calculated
formal
scared
words describing the features i bare
the ones given to me by the force beyond my control
by hands and words that shaped my mold
are you proud, are you happy
do these words bring you grace
knowing i never have to come back to your gaze
escaped from the prison
and the holding cell
the room i locked myself in
a confinement in hell
churned and burned
like sand into glass
i evolved my thinking
to be faster and at last
I broke from your grip
even if you say it was held dear
at the end of the day i choose to disappear
My Bicycle of Imagination
The day and I are hand in hand,
brimming with a zippety-whippity-do.
I sit atop my saddle, my bicycle, my hill;
the morning mist is ragged like candy floss
on barbed wire, waggled fences.
Below a liquorice-tarmacked road
elbows through a mosaicked landscape;
churned fields sitting either side,
serrated into channels of earth;
suited and rooted in browned corduroy.
Then further on and along,
the sky sits sedately on the sea,
resting on a blue, rippled settee,
just out of close reach
of a mustard scarf of a beach.
Clouds rear - wild, white stallions;
they settle, then away at a gallop,
racing, chasing the prize in
the finishing line, the horizon.
Watch out, speedy swallow,
now, it’s my time to follow!!
I sense my bicycle’s stalled frustration,
so my body engine sets it free;
muscles tighten, pedals spin,
it’s time to fly, time to check in.
Off we go…wind pushing at my heels,
sunlight splashing off the wheels
down I swoop, a dance of balance;
the bike glides, the road slides.
Watch me come, watch me go
connecting, perfecting with nature’s flow;
sky, land and sea…………WEEEEEEEEEEE!
Pride goes before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall.
Proverbs 16: 18
she stood tall on the jagged edges of the cliff
face worried as she noticed the rough seas
whilst above high dark clouds rumbled
though the sun shone straight at her face
could it enlighten her about what had happened
thoughts came and went, as she remembered
the letter he had sent her and wondered
was she deceived by her soldier and sister
he insulted her refusing to marry him
and she insulted him back vowing
she would never marry him come what may
still thoughts rumbled inside her mind
was he really proud or was she prejudiced
the jagged edges of a knife pierced her soul
could there have been some half-truths in his insults
she still hated him but admired his handsome face
facts churned in her head and confused her even more
could she face those jagged edges of truths
she turned and walked down the rough cliff
her soul lacerated with truths and pride
Placed 1
Clueless unborn thou art my song
The song for so long flew was not known, a long gone for so long soaring unborn
Adored the floral fragrance in, gone dried in mundane time left behind
The glow was an off beat startled, not to be, a neverland to greet beside.
The gust of a windy high, never there, never to try to recite , alongside
Come along my pensive sorrow, come along my kindled candle, burning strong
Come along for the valiant cause to stand headstrong through the darkest depth of the long
Death and her kissing diva, may find and so shall the cause be, the innermost song
With the pensive, painstaking , overcoming a morbid with a churned in mayhem
To greet them all , and all, undefeated, never in another succumbed in Bethelhem.
Raga: voirabi
rythm:kaharba
composition (bangla): 1332
composition (after christ): 1925
lyricist: dinendranath thakur
Shines would soon be taken off poetry,
When machines replace humans as judges,
By then wisdom will have fled human minds,
Making AI seem more intelligent.
Poems churned out will then be wishy-washy,
Since standout ones will have been discarded,
As machine junks — confirmed by machines,
So undeseving of recognition.
As more and more inferior works are praised,
At the detriment of discarded fine ones,
Our brains will adapt to produce more junk,
And our age will be known for poorer arts.
But are AI-written poems hard to spot?
When all they write is devoid of feeling,
A mimicry of professionalism,
Yet widely accepted as genuine.
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