Long Hari Poems
Long Hari Poems. Below are the most popular long Hari by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Hari poems by poem length and keyword.
Far off the beaten track and trail
on quest for music’s Holy Grail
led pilgrims on biblical scale
more than can be counted.
With midsummer sun on our cheek
in tents to shelter we did seek
and pitched them at its highest peak
on a hilltop mounted
As we climbed the lean of the hill
my beer I would try not to spill
and sat with the great unwashed till
olé and adios.
It was I, El Skeet, amigo,
in my poncho and sombrero
half-cut like a loco gringo
who waved “vaya con dios!”
We lit yet another hash bong
all up in smoke like Cheech & Chong
and passed it to each one along
under the cop radars.
Till late as wasted brain cells flag
with every mind trip headfu-ck drag
I tucked in to my sleeping bag
on the hill ‘neath the stars
As music and mayhem did rage
back in next summer’s youthful age
we camped closer to the big stage
by a shallow hollow.
I’d sit and watch the crowds go by
in the hot sun and dust and dry
under a big Waikato sky
from our camp on tent row
And as I ripped in with the guys
to our grog trailer of supplies
we made a hanging chain of ties
with every pull tab rent.
Waiting for Cold Chisel that night
with a superdoob glowing bright
I was fuc-kin’ high as a kite
and lurched back to my tent
The next day I woke in a daze
and walked off my drunken malaise
when I heard singing songs of praise
in some weird sh-it I saw.
Tambourine hippies, punks and geeks
and chanting Hari Krishna freaks
burnt incense in clay painted cheeks
so I got high some more
Yet in a hot wet and wild hour
stoned in the unisex shower
I gazed many a sweet flower
in their naked splendour.
We bathed too in waters that flowed
down where the lazy river bowed
lest my head spontaneous explode
on my three day bender
That night by the stars we were led
as above a smoky sky bled
when out The Enz rocked “I See Red”
and fired a burning flare.
In the spirit of Sweetwaters
we lived among at close quarters
sons of Bacchus and his daughters
and I so revelled there
Written: November 2009
Sweetwaters was an annual three
day music festival back in 1980s.
Baptized in the Jordan
The preacher announced on the bus:
"We are heading to the Jordan river,
those wishing to be baptized
will get their chance."
Thoughts of being dunked
in the same water
as the real Jesus.
That appealed to me.
Visions of a wilderness
river,
just like in those bible times.
Taking my cloak off,
wading into the muddy Jordan.
John the baptizer himself,
doing the honors.
Dropping me backwards,
dying my old sins,
raising me to a new life.
Coming out to the sound:
"This is my son,
in whom I am well pleased."
That appealed to me.
We got off the bus.
The wilderness was not
all that wild.
The Jordan had been turned into
"Baptisms are us."
Complete with deli and gift shop.
Apparently six other buses
also had been led by the spirit.
Our spirit's time was
between 4:00 and 4:30.
Ten dollars got you a towel
and a white sterile pullover,
barely long enough to cover
your glad tidings.
Lockers and showers were optional.
Our group was in zone 4.
Who knew rivers had zones.
As one of a hundred white
clothed sheep, I felt like
the newest member of a cult,
like the Hari Krishnas,
but without the fancy haitcuts.
We were herded down concrete steps
that led to the river.
The Jordan was cold.
Baptizers were in the water,
ready to go.
Henry Ford would have been proud
of that production line.
Baptizing had never
been more efficient.
Two every ninety seconds,
like pistons, up and down.
When it came time for me,
I didn't get a "Thank you Jesus"
out before I was whipped around
and plunged beneath the crimson flood.
I almost got whiplash.
I dripped back to the locker,
glad tidings and all.
I think I was baptizee #41.
For five bucks,
you can get
a DVD of your sacred event.
I bought ten,
they oughta make
great Christmas presents.
I went through the gift shop.
I bought a set of John the Baptist
steak knives,
Virgin Mary placemats,
and a couple of Holy Ghost
candle sticks.
As I got back on the bus,
I thought how far we've come
in 2,000 yrs.
We've made God's job so much easier,
assembly line salvation and baptism,
with steak knives thrown in.
Would Jesus be proud?
That did not appeal to me.
9.7.17.
CANDIDATE
that's my wife's business,
he will make it for you, not tomato sauce but grated coconut sauce which is fried without oil wrapped in banana leaves like pepes.
It is wonderful for a tongue that is saliva due to the rash of the savory aroma of coconut and banana leaves and kaffir lime leaves and the scent of garlic and the sharpness of chillies.
"Besides your house, near the sapodilla tree," replied Mas Sorjan when Selo proposed that his place was near the goat's cage.
"Yes, it can be an appetizer, when Selo says while lifting a bunch of bananas, baked until the skin is charred it will be really tasty."
I fell in love with Karsita
He is not a virgin
I do not care
He was frustrated by his disbelief
I do not care
He cares
Today, he herded ravines and ravines
Splitting the sun into three parts
Mix all kinds of recipes.
Your tongue will be messed up
What should I do?
What do you need?
Is not a wife?
Is it not the head of the treasury?
What about tongue-breaking?
Like the chaos of a trapped person like the messed up President
(in indonesia)
CALON
itu urusan istriku,
dia akan membuatkanya untukmu, bukan sambal tomat tapi sambal kelapa parut yang di goreng tanpa minyak dibungkus daun pisang seperti pepes.
Sungguh indahnya untuk lidah yang berliur karena ruap aroma gurih kelapa dan daun pisang dan daun jeruk purut dan harumnya bawang putih dan tajamnya cabe-cabe.
“Disamping rumahmu saja, dekat pohon sawo kecik.” Jawab mas Sorjan ketika Selo mengusulkan tempatnya adalah dekat kandang kambing.
“Yes, itu bisa sebagai hidangan pembuka, saat Selo mengatakan sambil mengangkat tandan pisang, dipanggang hingga kulitnya hangus akan benar-benar gurih.”
Aku jatuh cinta pada Karsita
Dia sudah tidak perawan
Aku tidak perduli
Dia frustasi oleh ketidakperawananya
Aku tidak perduli
Dia, perduli
Hari ini, dia menggiring kambing ketepi jurang dan
Membelah matahari menjadi tiga bagian
Mencampur segala macam resep masakan.
Lidahmu akan dibuat kacau
Aku harus bagaimana?
Apa yang kamu butuhkan?
Apakah bukan seorang istri?
Apakah bukan kepala perbendaharaan?
Bagaimana dengan pengacau lidah?
Seperti kacaunya orang kesurupan seperti kacaunya Presiden yang belum jadi
Poem by Paren, written with love.
Hai teman-teman perempuanku.
Yang lagi terluka, mencoba sembuh dari bekas luka ataupun yg lagi mencoba mencerna hubungan "racun" yang sedang kamu jalanin sekarang, berdalih "Mau nyerah, tapi ini sudah terlalu jauh. Tapi kalau bertahan semakin sakit raga dan mentalku".
dengarkan pesanku, dari aku yang pernah sesakit itu.
dari teman perempuanmu, yang sudah beranjak jauh— dari luka itu.
ya. walaupun hubunganku sekarang belum di titik puncak akhir
*ke jenjang halal maksudku, hehe.
tapi dari patah hati terbesarku beberapa tahun lalu yg membuat akuu ngerasa tidak pantas lagi untuk dicinta, kehilangan kepercayaan diri, merasa kurang dan takut untuk jatuh hati lagi kepada pria.
Sampai di titik aku mencoba bangkit dan membuka hati lagi dari pria ke pria. tapi hambar ~ sial aku benar-benar sudah mati rasa.
Ucapku di kala itu.
Hingga sekarang aku paham, ternyata dengan menikmati prosesnya, tidak memaksa. Intinya jalanin aja~ jangan berusaha lupa.
Sekarang aku dikasih sosok pria yg benar-benar ada dalam bait do'aku dahulu.
Dengan patah hati itu, aku selalu ngejurnal diri, setiap point yang boleh dan tidak boleh aku lakukan, yang bisa dan tidak bisa aku toleran, yang mana pria yang aku harus trima mana yang harus aku berani bilang "TIDAK", tolak ya namanya?
Dari sakit hati itu banyak hal yang sudah aku filter untuk TIDAK BOLEH lagi Aku ulangi di hubunganku yang sekarang.
Sehingga di hasil akhir yang belum berakhir, priaku sekarang memperlakukan ku dengan sebaik-baiknya pria terbaik yang pernahku temukan.
Setiap ucapan, setiap perlakuan, dan segala tingkahnya penuh dengan cinta.
Aku dimanjakan, aku tidak diperbolehkan menangis, sedihpun aku tidak dikasih waktu, selalu ada saja yang dia rayakan untukku.
Sampai yang membuat ku menangis adalah, bagaimana aku harus membalas semua tindak baiknya kepada ku dan keluargaku.
(puisi ini paren tulis ketika hari-hari bahagia dilewati dengan begitu sempurna, selalu dicinta dan dibuat paling berharga oleh sesosok pria yang paling istimewa—Bogor)
You wanna know sumpin sumpin?!
In the garden of life's relentless seasons,
bloom and wither,
don't ask me, for WHATEVER REASON,
faceted petals fall like molted feather,
turn to moltened Carbonite
if you get the right bearer.
YOU GET ME, miss been self miss-treatin?!
Each moment is a fragile puzzled masterpiece, for reason,
to pick you up in it's pieces and
put you into the big picture.
(Just like your man should be doin!), mm"
"You see, in the Carnival of souls,
"the ocean of wandering orphans",
(each an ingredient, expedient to it's own-
notions- honed- expose ').
Liquid, potions alchemized in the chemistry
of personalitay,
conceived in sonar avatars place-holding for the
"genuine article" for sanctioned interactivity
(in demarcation zones), I must say.
Looks like yours has been crossed on the way!"
In our cult of masks that influence the
wearer to be convinced of true identity as proof in the mirror.
Things cannot be made to be unclearer.
You gotta be yourself baby, shine on, be it what it may!
You know that, a Phantom of the Opera has taken sanctuary in the midst of the scene,
plays on your emotions like aphrodisiac
given a Mati Hari, please!"
That's why she ain't been talking to me!
A trailblazer, that one,
igniting the bloom of your seasons,
igniting strength in the depths of vulnerability,
pregnancy out of the dark tunnel
of winter reclusivity.
Her fertility ritual sparking a coming of age,
and the pairing as a wage.
I may be a muse, but she, she is not only acting in motherhood, baby, she is the stage!
You don't want to miss that show,
I am telling you right now.
Not that anyone does.
She is open for business.
You know what I mean!?
But you see there is a cost.
Feelings are the price of the ticket,
it's dealings skulldug-in-triplicate.
In the abyss of despair, hope lingers,
like a monster, there.
Momma Moon, winks, anytime honey, anytime.
A monochrome of boho days
segue one another surreptitiously.
Endless pantomimes of idle chatter flutter by.
Cantilever bridge, a one stop halting site for gossip and suspense.
Small talk, bespoke winged creature, Combe of pleuron.
Turin shroud spotter in the mise en scene melting pot.
The spirited stride of pavement strollers prompted by
agenda.
Metatarsals on the march.
Street vendor’s spooky cry with banjo beating busker at his side.
Dirt pan bellow and brittle strum about the
orange alert ahead.
Crowded car park, careening bus, frustrated taxi driver rank and file.
Backstreet Barney or kerfuffle on the lawn.
Swing sign overhead, a pawn in every trending breeze.
Office block malarkey cutting capers for the press.
New age ante-fix, the cover tile for corruption.
Whistle blowing wag inside the
city centre fault line.
Brass neck
reservoir of hoodwink high and low.
Harassed mother, barefoot beggar
nervously extends her rusted tin.
Guilt edge coin as bandage to our shoddy scruple.
Bag lady on the fringe of some haute couture complex.
Stasi-like security whose bluff veneer belies an inner
bludgeon.
Crouton salad diner has his finger on the pulse but not his pulse rate!
Tycoon in transition with an open brief!
Teflon tyrant
back to the future.
Ambulance chaser …. legal eagle…..with fortune in misfortune their calling card .
To the limit and beyond like an offshore Ansbacher.
Noonday bell
interloper at the scuttlebutt tavern.
Seconds out,
moments out,
hours in a hari kari haze.
Sensei’s of the left filling void with vacuum.
Laboured diatribe against dynasty, trite slogans, empty rhetoric, mannah from heaven?
All this from the cadres of social despotism!
Passage, the
pollinating insect of aroha.
Behind the rhythm of the grind a broad leaf grain of hope may sprout.
Green shoots of bounty.
Latent sidewalk bloomer.
Blossom by default or tender impulse
I used to fancy that I was punctual.
But on two occasions, I happened
To be late—to my lectures.
I was a latecomer, in other words.
I promptly granted the organizers and the audience
The liberty to call me “the late Mr. So and so!”
Thus, I escaped.
But I no longer entertain the fancy!
I wanted to be innovative in Practical Psychology;
Looked at Johari window.
I found out soon that no fifth panel
Could be added to the window;
And moreover, that Jo and Hari were two people.
How could I, as a single man,
Do anything about it?
So I dropped the idea!
Next I explored the domain of Education.
Benjamin Bloom’s taxonomy seemed
To appeal to my fancy.
But the great man had listed all the possible Objectives:
From Knowledge through Analysis to Evaluation.
And it seems he worked with a band of Educationists;
But still could not finish his project.
Then, how could I pursue it?
I quit!
Then I switched to Paul Ricouer’s Taxonomy of Hermeneutics—
Of Love and Suspicion.
A third category I couldn’t find—
For the life of me.
Good bye, Ricouer!
Suddenly, Roman Jakobson caught my attention.
His schema of six functions of language was impressive.
I carefully studied it and desperately tried
To add a seventh and—miserably failed!
As a last resort, I turned to Harold Bloom,
Who offers an exotic taxonomy—
Of six ‘Revisionary Ratios’
Or six authorial swerves—from the original.
I fought, this time, for more than ten years,
Trying to add a seventh ratio—
And finally surrendered.
But this time not without surrender value!
All that I learnt from Bloom is this:
Every poet is a latecomer—in fact or fantasy.
So, I started writing—poetry!
***
Angels we have heard on high,
Blowing trumpets in the sky,
Helping us to breathe a sigh,
Of Joy that we shall never die,
Angels we have heard on high,
Saying love is truth that ties,
Us all as one these tears I cry,
For all the songs that we shall sing,
As we make earth and heaven ring,
With sounds of crack babies getting free,
Through curses fading beneath the feet,
Of evangelists spreading love on streets,
Replete with souls hungry to hear,
That there is nothing nowhere to fear,
As children smile ear to ear,
And brothers share stories over beers,
As Muslims see their Messiah come,
And Christians see that life has won,
As schizophrenics dance at dawn,
Knowing that their pain is gone,
Angels we have heard on high,
Freeing us from dark one’s lies,
Showing all the God within,
That lights our souls and masters sin,
That makes girls ladies and wee ones men,
That chants Om Hari Hari Om,
And tunes into abundance tones,
That helps us stay faithful to our wives,
That guides our hearts throughout our lives,
That helps our spirits come alive,
Awakening to calls to rise,
Angels we have heard on high,
Speaking of a God of Love,
Above, below, within and everywhere,
Waiting to embrace with grace in hands to share,
Angels we have heard on high,
Blowing trumpets in the sky,
Helping us to breathe a sigh,
That we are safe in the hands of God,
And God won’t let us down,
That true we may feel oh so lost,
But to God we’re already found,
Angels we have heard on high,
Chanting oh so powerfully,
Of love’s everlasting victory,
And Love’s wondrous choice after Adam’s fall,
To send us a Savior who has saved us all!
I'm Just Getting Started
I'm just getting started, though I'm not in control,
But I am all dressed and indubitably, very well-composed,
virtuously loved by many, with honored adulation exposed,
so I lie and wait, but ready to go, anew, in my dapper clothes.
A broken watch on a floor, as time ticks onwards as before,
A kiss that's giving--believing, a kiss that's receiving--deceiving,
The moon coasts to attuned hearts that are squabbling on a lane,
Stars twinkle to sparkled wishes pouring from tear ducts of the hopeless,
Night waves surge, tickling the traipsing shoeless of the fully-clothed.
Baby falls to ahhs!--cries--carried, cuddled to coos,
Then wide-eyed to wonders of weird faces of two adult fools,
A writer's measure can be the length of a Tolstoy novel or the brevity of a Haiku,
Mata Hari can read her victims like a book, while Cassanova can undress pages with his looks,
The blessed and the bliss read scriptures from this,
While Cain to the cursed cast spells and do their worst,
From the sublime to the lowly, to the noteworthy and the ordinary,
From Titanic's affluent first-class to her destitute in steerage,
One day we will stand equals, titless bearing none other,
The Book Of Life is read, there stands, once a king next to a pauper.
2019 September 13
*5th Place*
I'm just getting started
~~John Hamilton
Whatever happened to all those cab drivers
in Madison, Wisconsin with PhD's back in the 1970's?
How are all the college kids doing who cut off a finger or toe
in order to avoid get drafted for the War in Vietnam?
How many domestic terrorists with blood on their hands
are leading respectable lives with forged identities?
Bernadine Dohrn, 'College Professor' - ex-Leader of
the 'Weather Underground'... Do you sleep at night?
Whatever became of all those long-hairs in the pictures
at Woodstock Music Festival in New York in 1969?
How about all those backpackers searching for Truth, who dived
deep into cults like Hari Krishna and the Moonies?
Wuddya say, Ginni Thomas?
Where have all the flowers gone? ... They've gone the way of
ANTIFA, of BLM, of Seattle, WA, of Portland, OR, of all the
'Sanctuary Cities' and George-Soros backed Prosecuting Attorneys
who refuse to prosecute, of CRT, of the 1619 Project, of endless
COVID lockdowns, of 'The Squad' and of 'wokeness'
But if you ask me, if America could survive the Cuban Missile Crisis,
Castro, Mao, Watergate, Sadam Hussein, Monica Lewinsky, Bin-Laden,
9/11, the Dotcom Bust, the ENRON and Arthur Anderson scandals,
the Great Recession, the Real Estate bubble, and Donald Trump and
Hilary Clinton, then I guess we can survive about anything