Long Chai Poems
Long Chai Poems. Below are the most popular long Chai by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chai poems by poem length and keyword.
Inspired By Connie Marcum Wong's Poem "Dreams Of India"
Dreams of India
Her music haunts me
in such a knowing way
it makes me weep
and causes my heart to ache.
I become homesick for her
scents, her sounds, her food,
her enchanting dance
which spawns dreams
of her romance.
I know in my heart
I have lived there,
I know, I have loved there.
Her poetry transcends
my spirit to encompass
a wholeness that is
so familiar to me.
I dream of the Ganges ,
and her gentle cleansing flow,
of reflections on its surface
when the moon is hanging low.
Of crickets singing nightly
to serenade me to sleep.
I dream of colors of the saris,
the beauty that they keep...
Of garlands placed with care,
a gajra in a maiden's hair
and the hues of floral leis.
I hold a reverence for Hindu
Devata and Devi.
I aspire to learn the sacredness
of varmala in the seeds of
past lifetimes I have shared.
A passion grows for those
whose love glows through their
auras to welcome strangers.
I'd love to share a cup of chai
to chat with friends in open air.
I long to return home, though
I have never been there.
Notes: *a gajra: flowers which females use as a decoration
for their hair.
*Varmala: is a tradition from ancient times where a beautiful garland of flowers symbolizes a proposal of marriage. In the tradition of Swayamvar. A female would choose her life partner from a group of suitors by placing a flower garland around the neck of her chosen man. Once the girl had made her choice, a marriage ceremony would be held right away.
MY TRIBUTE TO CONNIE MARCUM WONG
Connie never went to India, but she thought
she should have been born there…a mythical, mystical, sacred land of her
dreams ~ a Princess wearing
a Banarasi saree, a gajra on her hair…stunningly beautiful!
In my mind, she is there holding, for her beloved, a Varmala!
September 24, 2022
Short Connie Tributes - How Did Connie Marcum Wong Inspire You Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
i.
what am i, what am i?
tea, tea, for that would i die --
cup after cup after cup of vanilla chai.
the romance of caffeine,
the lull of forced time awake;
the feeling of falling in the night,
when your body starts with a quake.
what am i, what am i?
books, books, for them would i die.
o, to curl in my bed, to have a good cry.
here to mask the frustration of a boring life,
arthur, his knights, and a good, long, strife.
what am i, what am i?
loneliness, loneliness, for her would id ie.
i've always been told i'm far too shy.
sensitive as a mouse, picky as a bird--
who cares to speak if their words won't be heard?
ii.
what am i, what am i?
to that, i answer, many a thing.
i am the battered scribe next to the shining king.
i am dreaming of all the fish in monterey bay.
i am thinking tiredly about the end of may.
i am hiding my face in the picture you took.
i am a crude laugh and a shrill, "made you look!"
i am my favorite mug that always burns my hand.
i am the scratched CD of my favorite band.
i am turning the corner in tears & hitting my head.
i am thinking of ways i could wind up dead.
iii.
what am i, what am i?
why, i'll tell you.
my life is made of blue and gray.
i am no she, he, or they.
i am made of those moments in the wood,
when your words will undoubtedly be misunderstood.
i am her gifts, her endearing eyelashes,
the roll of his shoulders, his tales of car crashes,
their quick wit, their excited chatter,
the cringe i cringe when asked, "what's the matter?"
iv.
what am i, what am i?
some could argue i don't know.
too young, too brash, and definitely too slow.
but some could i argue that i do
because i know that i am not a 'who'.
i try to take moments and grab them ;
grip them tight & close to my chest.
i pile the memories up and sit on them
like my own beautiful bird's nest.
i feel only frustration, gratitude, and nothing at all
i open my mouth to speak with unconscious gall.
v.
who am i, who am i?
you tell me, please do.
chances are i know less than you.
you have a name, a life, some cares;
you are eager to pay society's fares.
vi.
so.
what of people who are what?
Comatose To Life
Somewhere on a small island called Penang, historically known as the Pearl Of The Orient…
There is a heartwarming tale of how tender loving care revived a comatose patient…
The patient is a fully qualified Florence Nightingale about to launch her nursing career ..
Full of hopes and dreams, excited about achieving her goals in her chosen career…
But the cruelties of real life was fatefully unloaded on her one unlucky day…
A twisted sense of fate saw a motorcycle accident that cruelly left her for dead..
But her strong will to survive and fight was something no doctors could have forseen…
She being in a vegetative state, those experts think they know enough to proclaim…
There’s no hope of full recovery, poor girl, and it is best to pull the plug on her…
Given her extensive injuries, her vegetative state, it’s best not to prolong her misery..
Her ever loving aunt, her only mother she had known, was resolute in her decision…
Come what may, her favorite niece will have her undivided love, care and attention ….
No one knows the depths of agony and the despair this loving aunt quietly suffered…
The loneliness and the infinite patience, only a mother maternal could have done better…
Through 2 long years of unending love and tenderness, against all negative perceptions..
From the expert doctors to the disbelieving relatives, she tirelessly persevered in her actions..
Today her plucky comatose patient is awakened, though she is far from full recovery…
What matters is she is alive, she has made it through, though there’s need for counselling …
This story is just a beginning for Janice Chuah Chai Ming, it’s the start of a long recovery journey..
This poem is just to document the power and the intensity of love and perseverance extraordinary…
For Chuah Bee Hong, the loving aunt who quit her job to devote full time for Janice’s recovery..
Prayers be with you and your loved ones, good deeds like this deserves only good in life’s glory..
http://www.thestar.com.my/News/Nation/2015/11/13/Nurse-makes-strides-after-waking-from-a-coma-Hit-and-run-accident-robs-Janice-of-bright-future/
In whispered hushes, the year awakes,
A canvas fresh, where dreams will take.
January’s breath, crisp and clear,
A brushstroke bold in time’s frontier.
Fireworks bloom in velvet skies,
Dreams ignited, hopes aimed high.
Resolutions inked in hearts anew,
Paths imagined, leading through.
Snow-clad earth, Winter’s delight,
A **Wonderland** bathed in silver light.
Frosted panes hold tales yet to be told,
While ambered hearths shield us from cold.
Children laugh on hills of white,
Sleds in flight, pure winter’s might.
Yet beneath the joy, pause we must,
To honor a dream both fierce and just.
**Martin Luther King Jr.**, a name profound,
His voice for justice eternally resounds.
With love and courage, he dared to say,
“Let freedom and equality light our way.”
Mentors rise with a guiding flame,
Quiet heroes, unspoken fame.
In **National Mentoring Month**, we find,
The power of teaching—a gift so kind.
Steam swirls from **Hot Tea’s** embrace,
Warming the chill, grounding the space.
Chamomile soothes, and chai boldly sings,
In porcelain cups, comfort brings.
Curtains lift, a stage aglow,
The shimmer of **Awards Season** begins to show.
Golden Globes gleam; they spin their tales,
The magic of stories on wintry trails.
**Creativity reigns** in this icy sphere,
Where ideas shimmer, vivid and sincere.
Brushes paint dreams, pens write their claim,
Imagination dances, unbound by name.
Snow festivals rise, crystalline art,
Beauty sculpted—a frosted heart.
Under soft flakes, angels appear,
Children’s laughter draws us in.
Feathered messengers in skies profound,
On **National Bird Day**, their songs resound.
From sparrow’s call to eagle’s pride,
Nature’s music is a joy worldwide.
Across oceans wide, a sunlit ray,
Marks bright **Australia Day**’s array.
Barbecues sizzle, waves softly play,
Celebrating a land of endless days.
Among joy and tears, the time does flow,
The births and losses that help us grow.
Memories etched in January's scroll,
Each moment a chapter, each soul made whole.
Darkness broke against the
shimmering, bleeding-out sky
as the sun, descending back
to its ebony prison.
We two sitting enjoying
Nog and Chai, speaking
pondering of life the
meaning, the confusion
of memories molding
clay upon the spinning
wheel, churning mankind
into a form from
embryological entrance
feet fist, usually
head proceeding down
to the slanting point
situations teaching
us the lessons of life
the best teacher the
one without judgment
letting us grow and
learn, the best guide allowing
us to experience it all
some good,
some bad
all adding to the moment
of who we are, all adding
to the reality that is us
We share with each other
these lessons, for we
too are teachers and
students to each other
All in one, one in all
From Cafe we sit
to icy darkness we stand
our breathes heard by ear
seen moving upwards by eyes
All truths revealed
of who we are, what we
learned and where we plan
on going. This journey
is one we need not
travel alone. Having a
good companion is just
as important as having
a backpack, rations
that sturdy canoe
we use these items
so often. The canoe
especially, its floating
mass taking us along
the river. Our Journey
filled with harsh winds
hail and rain. As we
grasp the floating emptiness
alone and frighten, the
rocking reminding us of
the cradle, but Mother
is absent, replaced by
the Mother of all. Nature
at her mercy, her
all-powerful grasp. This is
what we learned that
night against immature
car-filled hooligans, two
mature beyond age pairing
sages. That throughout
life we are faced by
many stepping stones
along the riverbed
yet we, along this course
can find comfort banding
together to get our
poetry heard, or voices and
minds accepted. Go!
Go together, all in one
one in all, strength in
numbers. Building our
home together, our Buddha
Lotus, our Grand Mosque
our Mecca of results
of our Poetic Journey
down the river of time.
There's a beat to the pulse beneath the skin,
how I stride through these corridors
with measured paces, memorizing the contours of muscles and bones,
carving roads into my head
as I inscribe them on the pages of a textbook.
They tell us that we are learning how to save lives.
But some days, it seems like we are learning
how to balance on the edge of our own.
Sleepless nights in pieces of time,
stack hour, caffeine-strapped study sessions,
a fragile surgical tool dividing the fine line
between exhaustion and persistence.
There's the big, buzzing hum of glowing fluorescent lights
under our eyes, but our hearts are full of something fierce,
a fire quietly burning deep within.
We try to survive by finding beauty hidden where it hides,
in brief moments,
like when the sun drips through the library window:
and you stop for just a moment,
to breathe in the light.
Or when you drink a cup of chai with friends,
the laughter rising like steam,
you forget for a moment the weight of the stethoscope
that always hangs, always calls.
The cadavers don't teach us the weight of life,
they teach us the fragility of it,
that beneath every cut, every diagnosis,
is a person who once stood
just as I do now.
Yet there are perks we hold on to,
not rewards but reminders,
of the music that plays in our empty rooms,
gentle melodies to tell us there's a lot more
to this than the perfect line.
Of the smell of rain on days when we've nowhere to be
but here, within ourselves.
Yes, we're learning to heal,
but we're learning how to live.
And so we lengthen out our days to something like the tendons of our hands,
but fill with moments between,
like sly glances at the sky
through windows of this place we call
a second home.
And so we make do.
We find our laughter in the sterile air,
our reflections not in anatomy books
but in the stories we share
with ones who walk this path.
Life doesn't wait for us.
but we have learned how to catch glimpses of it
in every step we take.
Spring or autumn, leaves bloom or fall,
Everything seemed to offer me immense happiness
As long as we stayed together.
Harshest of weather, extremes of cold
Still felt quite romantic
Because the warmth from him was better than that of a jacket.
Monsoons were our all time favorite.
It was during one such rain we had met
And ever since it had been our favorite.
Making hot chai together and sharing the same pakoras,
Singing and dancing without the umbrella in the rain used to be fun.
Playing football in the mud had a entirely different feel.
We never had the fear of catching cold interrupt us
Because the care and love we would get in return far surpassed everything else.
Unlike other days, I could feel my every breath tell his name
and the the wind that blew speak of our love.
It was his birthday!
I returned from office as soon as possible
to bake my special cake for him this time.
I had made his favorite Red velvet perfectly on time.
His car honk from the end of the street would tell me of his coming.
Rushed out with excitement only to see my nerves coil and heart bleed.
There was this truck that was over-speeding
And it was much evident that the driver had lost control over it.
My love, he was on his way back when both of them collided.
My heart skipped it's beat and I ultimately had to be the witness to see this tragedy.
The glass from the window broke and it pierced his skin.
He had hit the glass with soo much force and now his blood was on the road. For every drop of blood that fell, I could feel my heart getting broken
and myself becoming numb.
My body froze with my eyes fixed on him.
I wanted to be with him but my leg didn't cope up.
It had turned ice cold as I could see his face being disfigured
and blood being spilled.
I don't remember anything that happened next.
It was his last birthday ever!
The wind no more sang the story of us being together
But my heart knows that he will always live through me.
We’re in a “new” trendy neighborhood called Cascade Heights, in Atlanta. It’s lush - hydrangea, musk rose, hoya and blue false indigo are in bloom and there are greens of every possible variation.
The sky is clear and southern-sun bright - shadows are crisp. It’s going to be 91°(f) today and although it’s only noon, the heat is rising.
Leong pointed out the black tubes that discreetly provide air-conditioning, carefully hidden in the shrubbery surrounding the shaded, outdoor dining area. She thought that was very clever and American. “They’re for survival,” I assure her, “it gets hotter and hotter over the summer.”
Leong and I are finishing lunch, savoring a decadent chocolate chai-tiramisu dessert. “Oh, my God,” Leong said, sliding the chocolaty spoon over her tongue, “oomm.”
“So good,” I said, moaning with pleasure and closing my eyes.
The waiter comes over with an iPad, I wave my watch, like a magician’s wand and we’re free to go.
We were going to relax a minute and finish the last of our cold chai-tea, but as the waiter left our cleared dishes, a rando, wino-looking, elderly man came up to the bushes by our table and said to me, “You look sad.”
First of all, I think: NO - and who ARE you? Thinking secondly, OMG, go away.
I didn’t know what to say - but he put the kibosh to lingering. I started having an “eye-contact-only” conversation with Leong. Are we about done here - do you have your phone and purse - shall we go?
Leong and I stand, in unison, pushing our chairs back with our legs, gathering our shopping bags and belongings in fluid motions long-perfected at mall food-courts.
“We have to go,” I say, with a half-smile and goodbye nod to the man, “have a nice day.”
He watches us go for a moment and we surreptitiously watch him watch us go. Charles, our escort, who was at another table, fell in, a short distance behind us.
Maybe the guy was just being friendly, but you can’t underestimate CrAzY in 2022
You've been a rock
When I felt vulnerable and unsteady
You've been a comfort
When I felt weary and downcast
You've been a balm
When I was in agony and distrust
When those I counted as friends betrayed me
You stayed true
When others regarded my feelings as a doormat
You gently placed them in a jeweled box
When those closest to me could not vindicate me
You affirmed my intelligence and sanity
When others dismissed me as less than human
You regarded me as more than just a man
When others took more than they gave
You gave more than you took.
A greater portion of comfort
Was derived from the fact that
You were only
A one hour drive
A mere train ride
Away
But now
Life inflicts yet another reminder
That the best things never last
Although it is for the best
It is a bitter, painful pill to ingest
Although it is a comparatively short distance
Shorter than the Oregon Trail
It is a far distance
Far from your jokes, you’re your sisterly scolding
As well as your shami kebab. curried okra, and chai
Although I am happy for you
And although I wish you much success and joy
My heart is tearing at the very seams
Of your own mending
And while your map can lead you to your destination,
My abundant tears, like Hansel's breadcrumbs
Can easily lead you back to me, when G-d is willing
For you have been more than a friend
You have been a sister
Though you have the courage
To keep bulls at bay
You have the tenderness of a lady
And the wisdom to know when to use both
Where yonder can I find your duplicate?
Whereabouts may I find your twin?
For there is no one I know of quite like you
And your absence will be a void
As craterous as the Grand Canyon
Therefore keep me in your heart
Even in the tiniest nook
And never forget me, sister
For as sure as the sun in the sky
And the blood in my veins
I will always remember you
In my heart.
When I met her , a very old lady she was , yet inside lay a frightened child .
I felt my heart cry , I felt as if I was touching history itself , as I made this older lady, child, chai .
I remember the day , and so many tears I have cried
I have cried before she and I met
As a child , so many tears, left confused inside .
Not understanding Why , and how could we stand by and live our lives as if this never happened ?
It happened , we are left in dismay of the movies seen the accounts taken of History
My self ..I have caught stereotyping the very people whom did this to she , the rest of her Family erased .
The white candles we light , we try and forgive , or just simply block this pain out completely.
It occurs , over and over , as it has been said History will repeat .
When thinking of my children , when I think of that little girl losing , cold and scarred , feeling only defeat .
There is a lesson here and I pray , that all whom have been taken from life , have no pain and are gifted spirits throughout eternity . May they be warmed with love, and reunited with the ones they lost .
The first time I met her , her old hand I took and warmed it with mine , I held it for a long time .
You could not, but notice ..the Evil imprinted on skin , the Evil only to remind.
This very old Soul , in her eyes you could see .
The child that once lived , so innocently free, not aware yet, of the Hostility .
I speak of a Little girl, I speak of a old woman , I speak of a Jewish, chosen Religion.
There as I held her frail , old hand , a brand , a number stamped in Evil a long time ago . In 1945 , once in our distant, yet Frightening past .
We should never forget , never forget it happened , never forget all the names .
If we do , we have learned nothing , A World living in Shame .
" Etta Babooshka Kofman "