Under the bejeweled diadem of the sparkling sky
the vibrant celebration finds exuberance in the carnival,
morphing into a sea of color and music in the aura of night
where I float with the fancy procession in the spirit of joy.
The unleashed spectrum of confetti swirls in the festive air,
dancers in plumed apparels sway to the rhythm of samba.
The alluring aroma of street food drifts in the smoky air,
entices the ever-longing sense of delicious delight
The serene street reverberates with the tempo of trumpets
as the festooned floats glide through the hypnotized crowds.
Convention creates ingenuity in the exhilarating ambiance
with the mystique melodic motion in the festival of life.
Form: Free verse
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
Form: Free verse
The natives have
(since the seventh month peeped
through the lean crescent eye of the moon)
worn cloaks of festivities.
They dance the rites,
squelching proudly in mud and green pools
of water.
On their heads are smouldering fires of corns
And pears, and ingredients of a lush season.
Behold their mothers’ breasts!
Flopping tonelessly with life and ceremonial milk.
The engaging flesh of birth.
And their fathers’ ribs —bare and fractured—
Like splinters from bamboos of white; strong bows of
A fragmented hunting group.
Their daughters dance with frenzied gaits,
Insisting on frantic melodies.
Drums throb on with the vim of restlessness.
Flutes hasten with the speed of departing tunes.
Ogele* sounds with the rhythm of fraternal bliss . . . .
The village sons bend their torsos in tremulous dance steps,
reluming low-burning
ancestral fires.
Breathe in now the image of a raging ceremony,
Symbols of a rite,
which hang on the rafters of a community,
this seventh month of the yam calendar.
*Metal gong
Form: Free verse
Theres a surge inside of Britain..' A tidal wave will rise
Comesl the hour come the hero's lts time for history to
Decide.' In the deep breath of September although the air might
Chill.' The streets will bear true witness.' The station yards
Shall fill.' In every corner of the Nation on every market
Square the vibration will be travelling in the spirit of those
Who care.' As a beacon is to darkness as the Sun is to the
Day, so determination is against tyranny' it can be no other way!'
On the fourteenth of September..And on everyday till then
Speak of right, and stand for justice, fight the good fight.'
Raise a voice, lift up the pen.' Raise the standard..Be ye worthy! every one..Each stand saviour of the other one.' Give three cheers for all
The prisoned hero's..And that Tommy Robinson.!!!
Form: Rhyme
Our summer crops are in and larders full
So we are now well stocked for winter’s worst
When we will face freezing Arctic attacks.
Our stock contains dried fruits, roots and nuts
Along with several sacks of grain to grind
To make the flour to bake the daily bread.
And we have pickled veg in pots galore.
Beetroot, onions, shredded red cabbage and
Several jars of yellow piccalilli.
We have some salted meat and some smoked fish.
We’ve flagons of cider from fermented pears -
Sufficient to keep us high for many years.
Once more we‘ll endure wild winter weather.
But now we must have Harvest Festival
To offer our thanks to Mother Nature
For the soil, sunshine and essential rain.
Now it's time to taste this season's cider.
Our summer crops are in and larders full.
Form: Blank verse
Let the ladies dance in the sun
With wild flowers in their hairs
Let the men do the drums and lyres
Accompany the rhythm of the wind
Feel the joyous morning brings
Laughter and siren blowing near
Experience Baguio Flower Festival
In every hearts sharing upheaval.
Form: Free verse
Dow's Lake boasts a scenic park
with tulips by the hundred thousands
they bloom for all in springtime jubilee
that marks the launch of playful seasons
AP: 2nd place 2025
Form: Free verse
They swam in good water
We swam in bad
In destiny's disaster
We both felt sad
Form: Free verse
17.9.2024, Tuesday,
Lunar calendar Middle Autumn Full Moon day.
The moon hangs up high in the dark but clear sky.
It is so full and bright.
I must have witnessed it,
For more than half a centenary at least,
I have been alone for nearly two decades,
But only tonight, looking at the moon
All I felt was lonely and sad.
Early this evening, I delivered to you a little bag,
Inside there was a letter which I wished you
To enjoy the traditional Full Moon festival,
The messages were written in reverse fashion,
Only you, the recipient can read it.
Because I have shown you this special trick,
It was returned without opening it,
Instead of replying to the messages.
I felt like playing ping pong with this stubborn person.
Form: Free verse
Lights glow
Songs flow
Smiles bright
Joy, Light
Games played
Pray’rs prayed
This night
World's right
Form: Footle
Whispered greetings as shadows scatter.
Dew dripping as light gently crawls down the trees.
Murmurs of friends old and new rising into the dawn.
My cup full of more than love, warmth, relief, coffee.
A slideshow of yesterday flits gently through my mind.
Hugging with my chest not my arms.
No masking required only me.
Vulnerability, nakedness, a round of applause.
Smiles in the eyes, no strangers.
Great outfit, I love your…, yours too.
See you on the dancefloor.
Form: Free verse
After the fourth day of a full moonlit night
In the month of Kartick arrives the festival of Karva Chauth
A ritual to the testament of love and devotion
Amongst married Hindu couples.
The wife has kept fast since sunrise
For the longevity and health of her husband
All decked up in her finery and bejeweled
Matching the stars in the ornate sky
Together they walk up to the terrace
Then catching a glimpse of the moon
Through a flour sieve
She looks back at him with love and admiration
Breaking her fast by sipping water from her husband's hand.
Many a legend surrounds this festival of love, faith and devotion.
While the waning moon cast romantic beams of light
Flooding the lands below.
Form: Free verse
Flickering lamps,
a million tiny suns,
piercing the velvet night.
Crackling fireworks,
bursts of gold and crimson,
painting the air.
Sweet-smelling incense,
clouds of saffron and jasmine,
whispering ancient prayers.
Garlands of marigold,
a vibrant embrace,
around doorways, hearts.
Stories of Rama,
echoing through generations,
light triumphing over shadow.
Goddess Lakshmi,
a golden presence,
blessing homes with prosperity.
Mahavira's Nirvana,
a quiet meditation,
seeking inner light.
Guru Hargobind's release,
a beacon of freedom,
shining brightly.
Ashoka's conversion,
a vow to peace,
found in every smile.
Harvest's bounty,
celebrated in shared feasts,
a tapestry of unity.
Diwali,
a shimmering thread,
weaving together cultures,
through flickering lights,
and joyful hearts.
Form: Free verse
Diwali is the festival of lights
in which the rockets reach the heights
a day filled with laughter and fun
a temporary relief from the hasty run
sweets shared with everyone around
and the sound of crackers and happiness surround
the ordinary children burst crackers at night
while the poor children watch the colourful lights
they, very eager to watch these wonderful sights
are unaware of their darkness among these lights
Diwali lights the dark, colourless night skies
while the poor strive for a light in their lives
Form: Rhyme
Balloon
Sails into sky
festival
Form: Senryu
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