Long Abu Poems
Long Abu Poems. Below are the most popular long Abu by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Abu poems by poem length and keyword.
Am I Vexed? No!
Am I vexed to face music? We both are ‘same sex.’
It’s beyond man to fathom the depth of man’s soul
though perhaps a computer (imagined) might spin
all the dreams love might share, why sun’s rainbows arch backs
like a cat, or why butterflies pinned in a box make us dream
we still see them in flight when collection’s their death!
Does a nugget that’s ripped from quartz crystal’s complex
miss the death of its parent, the star it was born of, feel toll
paid by hydrogen gas, that birthed star? Does gold win
that can plumb all the times it has filled a heart’s cracks!
Love grows colder confessed, that’s unable to stream
what heart wants? I’ll denounce this until my last breath!
Am I vexed we’ve both wives with whom each shares his bed,
one eternity’s hourglass suffices such friends?
Let me speak for myself and not dare to presume
who you love, but has love yet been born that is meek?
If you can, tell me please how such love can be love (so restrained),
not erupt in hot rhymes, or ice flows of free verse?
You think tides (moon might raise), or earth’s seasons reverse
(on the axis of globe knocked-off kelter), mean love’s time-constrained?
Is love full strength, or is it diluted; will squeak,
has a voice known to roar? Care can stay in the room
(if there’s good news or bad), gives short shrift to loose ends!
Our time’s brief on this earth! Save love’s honor for Dead?
Brian Johnston
29th of September in 2020
Poet’s Notes:
Craig Wilson is one of my oldest and dearest friends! We first met in
the US Peace Corps teaching 12th Form students at the Sultan Abu Bakar
Secondary School in Kuantan, Malaysia, from 1968-1970. Craig taught
Biology and I taught Physics. Craig gave his class, and mine, a three-day
sex education class (that was not in the Malaysian Syllabus!) near the end
of our two-year PC commitment. Ha!
My friend and I are both getting ‘long in the tooth!’ I’m five years older,
but our contemporaries are becoming fewer in number. I thought, why
should I wait to write Craig a love poem? I might easily pass before him,
and I am so proud to say that I love Craig, a man, period! May the heaven
(that I hope for) or the reincarnation (he dreams of) mean eternities loom
ahead for us both, though I’m (certainly?) far more ‘Right’ than Craig is!
A strange claim
Of a man of passion
Of kindness
He said
Let the children come to me
For what man would refuse the smile
The innocence of a child
He parted his kindness
His wisdom
His love of all tribes
Animal and man, felt the kindness of his eyes
His tears grew this world
His voice made all of us listen
He made fisherman, philosophers
He made masons run free
He sang to ladies of the night
With the wine from wells of passion
Caliphs and Abu Nuwas soon followed
Love belongs to no one tribe
No sect or religion
It’s the flower that seed's travels the globe
Like feathers floating in the wind
When you see a child with no food
A woman with no smile
A man with no home
You make a balloon or funny face
You grow a rose
You build a hut
Trust in the kindness underneath
It will kiss you on your death bed
You shall rise to the heavens
Knowing
You loved the universe
Notes: This is one poem that for sure can be peeled like an onion. First of all, I am working on a poem based on historical fact, and documents from the Vatican, that will serve no other purpose than to tell an age old story. Yes part of it takes place in current day Turkey.
Second, I have a friend who resides in Turkey, and we met over the internet, and over the years, have become friends. I know him to be kind, to all people and animals. We are simply friends that have shared stories, laughter, and hardships at times. Whether someone lives next door or half way around the world, true friendship and honor is hard to find. You can not give it or receive it. You can only both earn it over time.
No man is perfect, we are what we are, but when you see a world in turmoil, as we do these days, maybe this small event or moment carries weight. I myself am not so nice. So then I must say this, My friend Volkan is, not to me, but to countless people. A smile and kindness costs nothing, and the world needs more of this richness.
Everyone these days talks of how technology is ripping apart society and this may well be true, but this is a choice we all make, technology is merely a tool. One can also use it to build bridges and friendships.
Normally I would be shy to give such praise, however events have taught me that, its better to speak good words than be silent.
Thank you, for helping building a better world!
I wanna tell you a story about a little girl
A beautiful sweet little girl
who enjoys living in her
own world of recluse
hopscotching to the beat of
her own drum
She's a dreamer and boy let me tell you
her imagination loves to run wild
You may find her gazing at the stars
envisioning the birth of an
ORANGE MOON
while love RAINS DOWN
Once gray skies dissipate
Heaven then opens up
as the GOLDEN LIGHT OF THE SUN
sticks to her skin like HONEY MOLASSES
She imagines taking A
LONG WALK to admire
the beauty growing
from the branches of
an APPLE TREE
reminding her that she too
grew from her family roots
to become BEAUTIFULLY HUMAN
She is CROWN ROYAL
BLESSED to have witnessed God
line her journey with FOUR LEAF
CLOVERS to impregnate her
with luck in the form of strength
It empowers her to move mountains
and dismantle walls 20 FEET TALL
Fearing no DANGER
she marches ON AND ON
like a SOLDIER pushing through
rivers of obstacles GETTING IN THE WAY
of her purpose
The SPRING SUMMER FEELING
leaves her SO IN LOVE
as she quietly confides in the flowers
by telling them
"the ancestors are WATCHING ME"
all while dancing to THE EARTH SONG
wearing peace and
blessings on her feet
while basking in the
manifestation of gratuity
He mother nurtured her
with food for thought
refilling her with infinite wisdom
She can hear her mother's gentle voice
telling her "GON' BABY, DON'T BE LONG
TIMES A WASTIN' and
be sure to pack light TODAY so you
don't hurt your back trying to
reach your NEXT LIFETIME"
The sticky sweetness
of an EPIPHANY rest on her mind
She levitates amongst the clouds
to swing on a rainbow
She don't want nobody
next to her on this journey
but the good Lord
guiding her beyond the ROLLING HILLS
and the valley low
holding her hand
until reaching her destination
to the woman she aspires to be
In her possession she has $3 and six dimes
a bag full of scribes
and a book filled with PENITENTIARY PHILOSOPHY
written by Mumia Abu-Jamal
I am proud of this beautiful sweet little girl
who enjoys living in her
own world of recluse
hopscotching to the beat of
her own drum
She's a dreamer and boy let me tell you
her imagination loves to run wild
©5-11-2020
OH BE THIS POEM AS SACRED AS HER NAME
Often I am compelled to hover over her shoulder
Each letter formed, each thought defined
For she has poetry on a leash
And walks it, pray I, at least three times a day
For she owns words that are her property
Well, not so much ownership but instead just rather properly
When roars the cage, when spears are aimed
When hoards of men come at her who the lovely’s never ever claimed
Fear not, poetry’s prize
For thou art ever in your Heavenly Father’s eyes
For you were birthed when an angel whispered “Autumn,” and that’s how you were
named……………………………….......
I see her sitting by a kerosene lamp with a quill pen just because it brings her back to a
simpler place
Where each sentence is aptly signified
And in each syllable she writes in the middle of all that is dignified
For this be a lady
A lady who can take on the persona of that which she chooses her poetry to be
One day she writes genius about how we all know life is a struggle, but then at the end of
the day, hopefully you have some with whom to snuggle
Or she’ll describe the horrors we hear of every day while most are deaf and blind but she
takes all our sorrow to her angelic heart
For one so wise should pen meet eyes and place upon a page of profundity with which the
words and verbiage she vies
Yet she always tames the concept she struggles with
Okay, so perhaps I’ll agree, she’s not the best
But take twenty poems by twenty poets and I’ll bet hers is the best, and if not first, hers is
definitely better than the rest
© 2011.…..~free cee!~
Pretty good for an old geezer (geazer) and I still haven’t gotten an answer, if I have more
than one mouse I have mice what if I have more than one moose? AND IF ANYONE
DESERVES A MORE HANDCRAFTED AND DELICATELY PHRASED POEMTHAN THE ABOVE, IT’S U
D……but don’t forget, the only time I get to use e-mail is at noon because that’s the only
time the old-age home I live in allows us us…if you wanna write it’s,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,
free cee
666 satanic street
c/o Dying Legends Old AGE HOME
Abu-Dhabi, somewhere ===they don’t even have zip codes
It will make its way to me, fear not
Faridah a name that blings I goose bumps
The fairest of them all my constant love
Free in spirit and soul she beloved of soul
My soul in her presence ignites in ecstasy
She is tall dark and lovely with a sweet charm
Her voice leaves my innards desiring for more
More of her lithe and athletic pretty ones body
Her abode a place of beauty where damsels visit
She makes them look pretty she's a beautifier
When I mention the fires she ignites in me
I cant but help promise her a coastal holiday
In a resort where we will sample margaritas
As sweet refreshing red wine is served unto us
...Rimi I cant fathom a life without my promised one
Faridah my sweet and lovely essence of an angel..
Her name I whisper liltingly lest fate hears of my love
And full of jealousy drives her from mine safe hand
Beloved is blessed with swit lips that taste of honey
Her perfume reminds me of pomegranates essence
They come from all over the ridges trying to woo her
But my beloved listens not to their wanton placation's
In my hands she knows she is safe and contented
With Abu I sent gift to Maaha our courtship taking root
Given the green light go ahead she is now my fiancee
..My Krall being full of goats I intend to fully pledge
Myself to her.. My Faridah making her fully Mine..
I intend to make her my sweet princess my only one
The one Queen who will rule the seven parallel realms
At my side.. as I mirror manage.. I muse in swift dream
..Oooh my beloved of Rimi Open the doors of Bashan
You're prince rides in seeking you're sweet presence
Do haste lest he leaves and is waylaid..
By them that guard..The cities fortification..
If you hear the voice of my whisper
...Open the door for me to gain calm entry..
..Am reminded of Rams of Bashan when they danced
With pleasure beloved of Solo..
...I send the south wind..And North wind
With them gland tidings of mine proposal..
Open the door for me My sweet lover do not hesitate
In you're hands I melt and merge into yo sweet entity
You're moans and mine groans fill our inner sanctum
As a game of time replays in all earnest..
You're One RIMI..
Code 254.. Acode Stronghold 013..
I miss her, Mother Egypt
and those friends I left behind,
timeless history, marvels and mysteries
etched in stone by her own scribes.
Longing for the waters of the nourishing
River Nile and surrounding seas,
the laughter and smiles of everyone
who once loved and greeted me.
Near the shores of Alexandria,
Abu Qir and Fort Qaitbey,
Where Cleopatra's palace once stood
in somber ruins, she now lays.
Near Pompei's Pillar and Roman remains
of columns and fortress walls,
white marble statues and museums filled
with antiquities large and small.
The sights and sounds in every town
Of a marketplace lost in time,
Selling goods from almonds to wildwood
And candles to clocks that chime.
In the land of the Eye of Horus,
the son of Osiris the King,
and Isis, Queen Precursor
to Mary, Mother of God, Creator of everything.
Cradle of Christianity and home to
Pagan, Gnostic, Muslim, Jew, sanctuary
where the Holy Family fled from evil
to a warm and welcomed refuge.
Where the mighty Sphinx and Pyramids
stand silent, proud, and tall,
in the salutary sands of time
with eyes peering down upon us all.
Temples of Luxor, Abu Simbel
and Colossi of Memnon,
Valleys of the Kings, Queens and Hatshepsut
awakened, alive again each dawn.
Mummification, adulation
of life and death and stars,
Constellations, incantations
and the wonders of who we are.
Battle tested, rarely rested
waiting for the next invasion,
of Persians, Greeks, Romans and those who seek
your immeasurable treasures unabated.
The ebb and flow of come and go
throughout your long, hard years
of growing seasons, rhythms and reasons
to keep fighting back the tears.
Yet never waned while fighting flames
of one invasion to the next,
while still your people smile and sing
with a yoke upon their neck.
In a land that never loses the allure or
enigma of mankind's birth,
where magic and myth still hold their grip
on whatever we think life’s worth.
Mother Egypt, truth be told, I miss you more than all your gold
and antiquities that survive,
where I once sipped cappuccino
watching history passing by.
===================
Ousted by None but the Night
Arabic Poem by: Adnan Abu Andalus*
Translated by:
Inaam Al-Hashimi (Gold_n_silk)
===============
The dusty street is bare
Darkness there and the horizon
As if, the night was sprinkling fear
Nothing there
But a policeman followed like a ghost
A street cat
A wailing ambulance
All where time is open for running
Endlessly
Who would stroll in the range of bullets?
To come back in the morrow like a spinning top
Without a head?
Who would walk alone?
And fly off with the meekness of the past
In Baghdad’s night?
Who would believe that AlZawraa held her lungs
And ousted the breath of her patrons?
And that “Abu Nawas” replaced
His last glass of wine
With a cup of black coffee?
Shahriar uttered it
To protest shampoo ads!
Scheherazade wore the veil
Bad boys of the night
Shunned flirting with girls
In the Girls Street.
______
Translated December, 2012
By: Em. Prof. Inam Al-Hashimi
USA
* Adnan Abu Andalus is a poet from Iraq
from his poetry collection “The Smell of Doomsday”
________________________________________
1 Knowing some of the history of ancient Baghdad may be helpful in facilitating better understanding of the poem. Baghdad was famous as the center place of the “Arabian nights” or the "Thousand and One Nights Tales" where Scheherazade, night after night, told the king Shahryar a different tale of romance and adventure to keep him from killing her in the morning.. Ancient Baghdad, nicknamed "AlZawra’a", was known for receiving, with open arms. night-patrons in joy and without fear. The poem refers to the glamorous past of Baghdad in comparison with the grim and gloomy nights of modern Baghdad after the war. In doing so, the poem mentions some symbols of the past and historical figures from old Baghdad and the Golden Age of the caliph Haroun al-Rashid (died 809 AD), and presents them in images contrary to their characters. Such figures include the licentious poet “Abu Nuwas" who wouldn’t recite poetry without being drunk. And the afore mentioned Scheherazade and Shahryar.
___________________________________
What a sight to behold! A home to immigrants,
a spectacular city rolled with a wealth of arts!
predominantly Catholic with its many facets
its historical resonance and genesis of existence.
While it’s a welcome contrast from other countries,
there’s evidence that it’s replete with triumph and fall;
just after Bolzano, Trento, Rovereto, Verona Porta Nuova,
Peschiera del Garda, Desenzano della Garda-Sirminione and Brescia.
That from Milan Central Station the train arrives in Monaco.
Indeed, I was so impressed to see the main city
its combined history and culture; a satisfaction
just on the horizons they gave me an enormous impression
to the so-called civilization that München defines its soul.
Churches can be found almost in every corner
with their baroque or lavish rococo architecture,
some artifacts and gothic designs in some parts
in the eye of the beholder, they’re indeed a treasure.
People from all walks of life converge at the epicentre
the bustling footpaths, crowded shops and restaurants
with families from Dubai, Abu Dhabi and Pakistan
Asians or other Europeans in common desire
this place holds a promise for future and families.
Germans in general, love to drink and hang out with friends
a place like Hofbräuhaus where huge crowds can be found
a good description, the best picture to recall.
Deutsch, the language spoken but difficult to learn
gave me an impression of its beauty in articulation.
With their conventional greetings like in many other cultures
respect is the by-word along with courtesy and reason.
like the Olympic Park, Marienplatz, Nymphenburg palace,
English Garden, Königsplatz and many other sights
They’re beautiful places steeped with history and connection
to the people of München who love their own culture.
I may not be keen about other European cuisines
however, as a person drawn to taste them all
with a sweet tooth I couldn’t resist a typical German version
of the American pancake served in the morning
kaiserschman, its name and it’s common to all.
Yo,
When I was younger, stronger, faster, phatter!
I saw Bayard Rustin, ascending and descending on bell hooks’ reveries,
And I screamed, from artistic insights,
Of plights and rights, citing Mumia Abu the Baptist,
“MOVING” SOULS to awakening, writing like Melchidezek in a Birmingham Jail,
Christ in Communist imagery,
Mohammed quoting Amos and speaking Barack into the “real”,
The World unknown to slaves of Matrix Madness,
Sad yet Strident,
Che and Jesus, encased in Chrystal prisms,
Of John the Baptist’s prison,
Different shades of the same spirit,
Freeing seekers from Oppressed Pedagogy,
But the sounds of naked children,
Screaming from the shattered images of Native Prophets denied their right to subdue the earth,
Enraptured my brain, and the thousands slain by South African Nazis,
Brought me to the brink of new beginnings,
Wherein, I war from the inside out,
Watching the sunrise of lies exposed, and young prophets forging emergent imagery,
“Christian”, teaching on the front lines of minds that can breathe anew,
“Dr. T”, slayin’ nightmares of myopic minions clouding the light of the almighty,
“Eli”, the young Jedi, facin’ Dark Forces with a saber tooth intellect,
“Melissa”, demandin’ respect for the forgotten and makin’ miracles for the downtrodden,
“Hugo”, the only begotten of Chi-town expression, taggin spiritual secrets on the backs of
abandoned day dreams,
“Viv”, teachin’ lessons of stress silenced by the strident freedom of angels bustin’ forth
from cocoons of plastic consciousness,
“Leber”, the dreama, of new market creation, in the image of acts, where none know lack,
And the facts, smack, cracks, in the faces of fat cats who feed on the blindness of hatred,
These are the prophets of my generation,
And as I weave my seeds of transformation, from a tower of sanctuary,
I look to them on the streets, reaping the harvest renaissance,
And know joy!
Lord Vishnu once blasé of the same old scene,
Far too tame with His heavenly ease,
Felt for a change from ‘oh been there and seen’,
For one that exhilarates with fragrant breeze.
Arbudanchal My Lord, sage Narad said,
His constant devotee, seer versatile,
The hilly spot soothes any tired head,
And waiting ‘tis to welcome you with smile.
But how would I find this new paradise?
Look for a place bursting with spring flowers,
Naught whatso like it anywhere else lies,
Rich air wafts bliss from blossoming bowers.
No one can miss that golden yellow hue,
Aroma so rare on Earth’s floral world,
And a long spring’s about to be unfurled,
Once you reach there you'll need no other clue.
And ye can't miss those trees towering tall,
Glossy green leaves and ethereal fragrance,
Nor miss hills’ pyramid-like sloping wall,
Once there, enough is just one single glance.
…….
Yea, not long back it was, in fairer times
When earth nigh but rivalled the paradise,
Old Arbudanchal, what immortal climes!
Time when air was filled with life, man was wise.
Today the green is struggling to grow,
Hills bulldozed bare, brazen bald by progress,
Bare little’s left now old glory to show,
Save manicured greens garbed with tailored dress!
And still enough hints of the old glory,
Hope, it’d one day trace back times so hoary.
Alas, we’re left with only thinning hope,
How long would Nature give men longer rope?
______________________________________________________
Arbudanchal: The present day hill station called Mt. Abu in Rajasthan. I was there for ten days in late April to explore once gain its beauty after a long time of thirty years. The difference I found was stark. This piece narrates how this place had been the envy even of ones like abode of Vishnu.
Reminiscing | 04.06.2008 | narrative