Long Journalist Poems
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L. MESSI vs C.RONALDO™
They're two male G. O. A. T
striving for the throne:
One named Lionel, other named Cristiano,
One aged 35. The other aged 37,
One is seen as a god,
The other as super hero.
One hails from ARG????, the other from POR????.
One owns & bosses the no 7,
The other dons the iconic 10.
Who's every kids model & ladies crush? Cr7????
Who's every man's dream & hero? M10????
Who's every defenders nightmare? Lionel Messi.
Who's every goalies daredevil? Cristiano Ronaldo.
Who is the media's own son? L. Messi.
Who's journalist black sheep? C.Ronaldo.
Lionel is like the last born of the house
who can do no wrong even when he's wrong,
pampered long enough in mama's house (Barça)
and finally released abroad when he's older.
Cristiano is the first born of the family
who pilgrimages to fend for himself (Lisbon - Madrid),
And takes the blame or responsibility for others
(even United's 21/22 trophyless season blame
was hinged on him despite his scoring exploit).
One mount on praises and adulation,
The other feeds-off criticism & respect.
The throne became void when our forefathers:
Pele & Maradona vacated the hot seat.
Now, the age-long tussle has to sly once & for all.
Fanatics, let's crown the new GOAT,
Give what belongs to Caesar to Caesar
And what belongs to GOAT, the accolades.
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© December2022.
The quyeer one's into lectures.' Well he?? yes he is the pm.!
A background full of law, and saville ignoranc, no intent' to
Besmirch or to scandal.' I don't think there is need he is
Personally in thst quite active.' I'll try to bring all up to speed." He has locked up free speech.' And a journalist too.!
Name of Tommy Robinson.' Who screened a film that was
And is so true, i don"t know him socially, for we never have
Met.' Yet I advise his release.' That good order be kept, that
Law may be seen to be impartial.' That it may be seen that
It is done' In the interests of a country that once put true
Justice as priority number one.'
Holding her head high
with a resolute look;
possessing dauntless courage and wisdom,
She never feels subservient.
The emerging modern woman
fabricates her own traits,
by obliterating the customs
of engulfing in murk named ignorance;
and suppresses the routine
of living a melancholic life.
******
This is the translation of a verse from Mahakavi Bharathiyar's poem "MODERN WOMAN". He envisaged Modern Woman as a leader, law maker, savior and an independent person. Women were treated as domestic slaves in ancient India and his writings kindled women empowerment and gender equality. Remembering him on his death anniversary(Sep -11)
The original poem was written by Bharathiyar, one of the greatest Indian poets.It was written in Tamil. I am an ardent fan of him. He died so young(39).
He was fluent in many languages including Bengali, Hindi, Sanskrit, Kuuch, French and English.
Wikipedia:
Subramania Bharati (11 December 1882–11 September 1921) was an Indian writer, poet and journalist, and Indian independence activist and social reformer from Tamil Nadu. Popularly known as "Mahakavi Bharati", he was a pioneer of modern Tamil poetry and is considered one of the greatest Tamil literary figures of all time. His numerous works were fiery songs kindling patriotism and nationalism during the Indian Independence movement.
Erik Bye was a writer, entertainer, TV personality, and easily, in the sixties and the seventies, the most popular man around.
He was born in New York to Norwegian parents who later went back to live there, while their son Erik went
back to the USA to finish his education.
On returning to Norway, he wrote a book about his experiences crisscrossing the USA.
The travel book was a best-seller in Scandinavia and
the book was also translated into English.
Erik also wrote some other books and many songs about the seas
As a journalist interviewing people from the masses
he was superb at getting them to open up and tell their story.
His own untold story was his battle with the booze
Oslo, in the sixties, was difficult to find a place to drink on Sundays, he and his drinking cronies bought
flight tickets to Denmark, and could sit in the international lounge, drink, and miss the plane.
He was also a prolific songwriter, many of his songs have been published in book form
Erik Bye was, in his lifetime, a big, imposing figure
It looks like the way we think Vikings appeared
Alas, his health took a beating; the alcohol spares none after several hospital stays, he passed away at 78
The End Is Near
My existence is under absolute rule of a dictator regime,
I have grown up in the shadow of a tyrannical, overbearing man;
(and family)
he has built huge walls,
cutting us off from the world- no one leaves;
or ever enters.
He jailed all journalist, newscasters, and activists,
and ended newspapers;
all writing is illegal- the law is death if caught.
No books are allowed and all libraries have padlocks,
(and schools)
A black cloud hangs in the sky from coal burning;
nothing green exists, and
all is brown,
(nothing wild survives)
I live in the basement of my ruined home;
my activist parents have disappeared,
and I write poems.
I have to (I must) it is in my blood,
although the punishment great;
yesterday, I ran out of paper and I am writing on walls.
The end is near- and there is no future.
____________________
April 1, 2017
Verse/Unshackle My Verse
Copyright Protected, ID 889040
Unshackle My Verse
Kim Rodriques
Negotiation is a tool and those who reject it is a fool, you must go back to the negotiation table to find out if the proposal is able. You must read every detail of it and be careful not to toss it in ditch. This will be your last chance to get it right before nature starts rolling the dice.
You have walked away from it several times but nature is keeping you alive; you have not read it so how can you understand it? Your IQ is so low but mercy is keeping you on the show. How could you refuse to meet when the people have been keeping you on your feet; I have survived a thousand deaths but destiny is not ready for me yet.
You have got to go to the Negotiation table to get some critical things done; this race is not for you and the angels will not look after you. You have a lot of bills to pay and compensation to give away the destruction of the property is your personal responsibility.
How much time I must tell you that I am not a politician, how many times I must tell you that religiosity and business cannot work? you have swallowed the bitter gall and got mixed up into a brawl.
The table has turned and there is no way you will were wear the crown, you will not return to the stage until you compensate the family for all the misgivings and deception that you have brought.
And when that is done you will suffer the biggest defeat under the blistering sun and all your nuclear weapons will explode in the heavens, they will have no effect on the human brain.
You are stubborn, hard headed and careless, you are not the king, the King’s man or the door man you are just occupying space but nature will get you out of the race, you have angered everybody and no one wants to tarry, you have jailed several journalist and they have branded you as the biggest hypocrite.
I saw it on the evening news how you have handled the accused, I am not a politician and I am not going to sing your political song, release the people from form your jail before the mercenaries come your way, this time nature will respond with full force and water will rise up on every roof ..
You will go to the negotiation room and hear what your negotiators have to say, you will participate in the discussion and show some respect before the dam breaks, I hope that you will understand that you must pay your debt before I go away.
I scribbled quickly
As they wrote their final exam
Little notes of appreciation
A special individualized message
Thanking each student
For having been in my class
And for bringing me joy
Reminding each one
Of the potential that lies within
For each is a remarkable individual
A personalized message
Of encouragement
And a shared Bible verse
Psalm 37: 4
This was a special class
Made up of pastors
A journalist
An architect
Adults from different walks of life
Some married
Others single
Some shy
Others bold
All wanting to become
Better writers
What an amazing group
My French came in handy
With my students from Algeria
How I loved their French accent
As they tried to pronounce
The bothersome words in English
Leaving a never ending smile on my lips
After they spent an hour writing
I made them pause
To have home baked brownies
I’d made from scratch
Along with a soft drink
A time to relax…
Refreshed
They continued on their essays
And I decorated each note
With stickers
“Great Work”
“Way to Go”
“Excellent”
“You are a Star”
And for the women
Lots of hearts!
I love hearts
They decorate my office
Pillows
Key rings
Earrings
And now
My little notes
Which came straight from my heart
Each one got to exchange the finished essay
For a handwritten note from the teacher
I said with a sheepish grin
“These stickers are not because you are a child….
But…because I am!
I am a child at heart!"
That brought smiles
And a hug from
The journalist from Brazil
“I’m going to cry,” she said.
As she gave me a bear hug
My heart sang
They had learned to love writing
What greater joy could be mine?
The Brazilian journalist
Met me in church last Sabbath,
Gave me another warm hug and said,
“Teacher, thank you for the note
You inspired me to do my best.”
And what she couldn’t articulate well
Sparkled in her eyes
And danced in her hand motions
Silly little stickers
Simple little words
A whole lot of love
Love for my students
EVERYONE needs some encouragement
Everyone needs to know
That inside the heart resides
A wealth of beauty longing to be expressed
A piece of the soul that longs to live forever
In the written word
I thank God I’m a teacher
After all,
I’m in good company
For, the GREATEST Teacher of all time
Jesus Christ
Is my mentor!
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Paulo was Brazil’s most popular journalist, but the left did pursue
He told an American interviewer that the left there "hates you"
I found this a puzzle, I asked why, what did we do?
But hate has odd wellsprings, and I still have no clue.
Brigitte Gabriel lived in a pretty Lebanon town with a hilltop breeze
There were school plays, and churches, gardens and fruit trees
It was Christian then, Moslems next, Holy war came as fate
She wrote a book about what she learned, called "Because They Hate"
You might wonder why the title isn't WHY they hate?
But hate has its own logic, and the reasoning isn't straight
I learned some of this logic too, it has its own rules
You don't learn them in Hollywood, or in the schools.
The first rule is that weakness invites attack
You get friends in odd places, others stab your back
Second, the more baddies hurt you, they want to hurt you more
If you've already hit bottom you might ask what for?
Third if you end up acting the way they force
They even punish you for that, though they were the source
The victim argument of "what did I do to you"
Doesn't work at all, even when its true.
All this seems irrational, but some people produce hate
The way waterfalls turn turbines, and power generate
I read of one U.S. woman kidnapped, led in chains by evil men
She asked why, was told "because we hate you", same puzzle again.
I do believe there's a reason for everything
In some people a distorted brain is the bubbling spring
In others perhaps an ideology some fool did start
Maybe a moral divide in every heart.
Fugitive Truth -Asad Chowdhury
Reciter - Shimul Mustapha
Fugitive truth, where did they all go?
In bottled milk, rice bowls! Nowhere to know!
In the restaurants, hotels, salons
In a library and inside antique smells
Television or cinema, radio
In a boat ride or snake charming carrier truth, nowhere to know!
Where molasses Jars, and poison boxes
With candy pots and those grocery bags stay
Cigarette cases , betel cans
In zarda boxes and in the laxmi, carved,
In motif of culinary, underneath the furniture
Looked for them, and all of them, only to fail, to ponder !
A journalist and the wooden desk
In papers and books and the scriptures and pens
Injections and the eczema gels
In vanity purses, pockets and attires
In drawers, banks and iron safe, a rare
Truth and the glorified truth, nay, nowhere!
In poems , in songs
In feminine those gestures to kindle house warm
fanatic those mayhem to dense
Dramatic those dialogues, abreast
To rule, to speak
In the dark, or to lit
In lines or in lines of pens
In answers to those questionnaires
In gowns ,performed or in those syllabus, understood
In permits or in those bonus boons blessed
In depression or in optimism, they
In love and care and from these depth of lover affair, says
Not even in black markets, no
Truth, where did they all go?
My Missing Muse
I have tried to write as of late,
but my mind has become a true blank slate.
My keyboard is bored and my ideas are bland.
I have to think of something grand.
Lately I lack poetic thought, thus I’m feeling quite distraught.
Maybe new themes will come to mind, if I read some antique poems of mine.
I have written about nature,
birds like ducks,
a child’s marker freckles,
a coffee cup.
A retired boat resting on the shore,
dirty socks behind a door.
I’ve penned 2 poems about Monet and VanGogh.
Now Degas? I don’t know.
Lady Di who danced in her royal gown,
but sadly now listens to angel sounds.
Her love for people was always increasing, but my poetic thoughts,now decreasing.
A teapot and a tuffet, diddle diddle dee.
A sweet little bundle came to me.
Blueberries grow on a bush not a tree!
Still no ideas will come to me.
Two tired tulips on my windowsill doze.
Three ladybugs on a daffodil pose.
Now is the time I need to compose!
A chorus frog’s peeping has a dancing beat,
clicking,
croaking,
repeat.
Jumping rope in heels, the teacher who tried her best.
Feathered fledglings sleeping in a Blue Egg mommy’s nest.
There is a wee granny in my apple tree.
Bring your appetite, then you’ll see!
Trees dressed in acorns
Protect our seas
Echoing owls between forest trees.
No new ideas coming into my head ?
My muse is hiding, I dread.
Cronkite,a reporting wiz,
closed the news, “That’s the way it is”
An unbiased journalist one could trust.
Integrity, sincerity and principles, a must.
TV shows,
Winter fairies on tiptoes.
Still I have the blank slate woes!
A path of moonlight, dragonflies.
Slowly summer says goodbye.
Soon the southern birds will fly.
Smell the season sunshine.
Crowds that cheer, “Alley Oop”
As basketballs find their longed for hoops.
Aunt Gloria was warm in her Irish blue.
Little boy Benjamin lost his little shoe!
His sister found it, "PEE U”
“Hooray” I cheer. Now it seems more clear, I feel my blank slate might disappear.
I’m suddenly feeling passion for more creative action!
Imagination,inspiration,determination!
My mental blankness is washing away.
New topics to write about, coming into play.
Now upside down silly fun.
To the writing teeter totter Marikate, have fun!