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Concluding Part of
Oh’ Kashmir - Last Part 2
One grave mistake was
Shown by the decision makers
Of Kashmir,
To convert the green valley,
Into a valley of concrete.
Dams, buildings and houses,
Were built on places,
Which were the nourishing orchards of Nature. ..08
Changed by the greedy lovers of money,
The builders,
Who built tall buildings and dams,
At the cost of destroying
Brooks and streams,
Lakes and forests, the serene hills
And the meadows,
Which always reminds us,
As the playground of shepherds,
Without caring for
Trees, plants, animals and seasons,
Which always remains the back bone
Of every civilization. 09
Another grave mistake was
That when some people were trying
To drive out,
Several thousands of those innocents,
Who were the inhabitants of Kashmir,
'The Kashmiri Pandits'.
Those who were living there,
In Jammu and Kashmir,
Since thousands of years,
Couldn’t get any solid support,
From their friends and neighbors,
When they were forced to leave Kashmir,
And their friends and neighbors,
Who could have stopped the miscreants. 10
But the others remained only
A silent spectator,
While watching the destruction,
Of their friends and neighbors,
By those, who wanted to make,
Their own separate heaven,
Without the presence,
Of the blooming smiles,
Of these innocents,
Who were their friends, their intimates,
And their childhood companions. 11
Since a long time,
These people in exile
Are living in roofless homes,
With tents on their heads,
They were ignored and were thrown out,
As if, they were not humans,
And not the oldest inhabitants of the valley. 12
Even after the flood of fifth September
When the army men were trying,
To put a healing balm,
Even at the cost of their lives,
On the suffering masses,
Trapped in the disastrous flood,
During the floods havoc prime time,
Some people were throwing stones,
On choppers and on these men in service,
So that the suffering masses,
May not get,
The life giving water, foods and medicines. 13
Perhaps the Nature has not liked,
Some of these actions,
And has shown its anger,
As never before in the history of this land,
To make us realize,
The serious follies and mistakes. 14
Ravindra K Kapoor
Kanpur India 17th Sept. 2014
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
Autumn, hoar with age, and damp,
Was about to swallow her pride and go away —
And go the way of all flesh—
Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up
Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves.
Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar,
A fattening roofless museum of couture
That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall,
Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern,
Fogeys and hipsters,
Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks,
Redder than deer blood,
And assembled pieces of mascara,
So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks,
Each selling much more than a fragile penny.
I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by
Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then.
I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses.
Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits,
The rush needless and lacking in manners.
Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform
Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! '
Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels.
On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac.
I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution.
Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and
Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the
Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs.
The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper
Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey!
Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers,
He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand,
His breath on torture,
‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? '
‘Last, ' I mumbled.
nascent
dawn appears
kaleidoscope
of
color
midnight
sighs
leftovers
of
last night
plateful of
unsaid
words,
a
tablecloth
of rapier-sharp
folds
&
fireplace
dying
to be
kept
alive
sensitive
hearts
feel
powerful
in
mundane
rain
pelting
petals
think
of
others
when eating
remember
pigeon
food
when fighting
remember
seeking
peace
paying water-bill
remember
cloud-nursed
when homecoming
remember
homeless
campers
when sleeping
counting stars
remember
sleepless,
roofless
foodless
healthless
hopeless
be a candle
in
dark
snow
mixed
drizzle ...
dust-covered
man
holds
hand
of daughter
dying
slowly
under
slabs
of
concrete
life
illusion
dream
swoon
ecstasy
oblivion
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: February 14, 2023
YOUR SELECTION AGAIN Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
NOTE::THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' (intuitive cadence)& so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
On my way down to New Jersey
to take care of business there,
I pulled off and up to this place,
where I got out to stand and stare.
This was the Kutchingkord Hotel,
the heart of the old Borst Belt,
looking at the ruins now,
you can barely even tell.
I came here once when I was four,
way back in the mid eighties,
even then, amidst its decline,
it left an impression on me.
They had a daytime kids program,
back then I thought it so fun,
though now I see it kept us busy,
so our parents could soak the sun.
I remember the restaurants,
and the cool covers on the each dish,
they put them atop fine Kosher meals,
and I’m not even Jewish!
But now it’s just a concrete pad,
a weathered hole once was the pool,
there’s broken seats from the nightclub
where comedians played the fool.
Fences still up on the tennis court,
now cracked and without nets,
the pool-house is standing roofless,
haven’t brought the ball there yet.
Over there is the old ski slope,
all two hundred vertical feet,
maybe not the Matterhorn,
but once good enough for families.
Surrounding it all is tall grass
on what was a grand golf course,
twenty-seven holes and sprawling,
nobody plays it any more.
It saddens me to see it so,
but the trend is nothing new,
these are not the first resorts
that the Catskills have burned through.
Once in the nineteenth century,
higher up in the rolling hills,
the Mountain House and Kaaterskill
tourists once proudly filled.
Now there are just displays there,
telling hikers of how it was,
that thought just saddens me more,
and the reason is because
I know next time I’ll see one,
explaining that on this spot here,
a place once called the Borst Belt
welcomed guests for so many years.
Hold the trod, limit the space
The offspring's of Tuareg Cowhead cut my heels
The breaks on the hind been slammed
I break to a halt, he breaks to a sprint
Wagere, if you skip by the race
Render it bare to Takuruku's mind
His piteous lead, leads me to a lid
Layed on my coffin though a living corpse
His wanton waste of debts secured
In a paupers hide, the wrath I incurred
The burning fire he spiked to burn
Has burnt the burning amber yet aglow
Now in my roofless un-sheltered soul
My burnt roof permits me limitless vision
To the million gold trinkets on heavens fragile neck
Watching as dawn noisily creeps by
To unveil the hood placed on the aglow ball
While crickets sings me a lullaby of mockery
As the mocking cries of the high heavens
Whose exaggerated piteous tears flood my bare hide
Soaking nothing except everything decent
Never allowing my guts be dried like in an ocean layed
Wagere, as you skip by the race
Render it bare to Takuruku's mind
His insistence I strip to my bare ****
To acquire me a she's loving leisurely lease
Has raped my dignity to face my adversaries
Will then, the debt of my bare **** asunder be layed?
Urge him to make haste my she restored
'Cos in my second childhood
No one has been left in this leaking backyard
Infested with green serpentine in green shrubs
No foolish lamb to draw a lid on my coffin
When my sealed heart couldn't feel my life throb
Will the sight of my flesh in Vultures gizzard
By your secured lock not a stir made?
These agonies you rendered for my cradle
The melancholic property of misfortune ceded to me
Plus to see me enter heavens with pains
Even though my soul has no pains
I very nearly died thrice of this shame.
My Bothers and Sisters
(Street Kids)
We grow up in public landfills, train stations,
under the bridges of towns,
victims of all kinds of abuse, but we still had rights…
because of conflicts with our relatives,
we did not want to return to families.
The public is unfair towards us;
they regard us as street kids and a danger to society.
They also label us 'thieves ', 'dagga smokers ', 'glue sniffers '
and 'alcohol abusers ',
while they have no idea who we are."
We lack the basic necessities of foodstuff,
health care and a safe place to stay.
We eat unhealthy foods such as ice cream, cakes, etc.
known as vagrants, rag-pickers and glue-sniffers
and blot out the violence we faces on a daily basis.
we share the same name- street kids.
It is painful to be called 'a street kid'
when we are not responsible for our situations.
Yes, some of us ran away from home,
but others like me are orphans,
and our relatives are not prepared to live with us.
They laugh at us as we ate food from the dust bin,
we are often dirty and infested with fleas.
We are felt stigmatised,
homeless, hungry and abused,
surviving by begging, finding odd jobs,
scavenging rubbish sites, or prostitution.
We had huge suffering, we are abandoned...
going to the streets is an act of despair.
We are not only homeless or roofless,
but we are also culturally rootless.
clothe crop-dusted with dirt and orange crumbs,
as are our shorts, shoes, hair, faces.
Our hair is still damp with perspiration,
and beads of sweat streaked little paths
in the dirt on the sides of his face.
Form:
Wasp nest under construction...
vacancies for yellow jackets also available
alternately titled: eave'n roofs houses nidus
If ye dear reader find yourself
as an under appreciated
busy buddy buzzfeeding bee -
hive got just the solution.
When me and the misses
entered side door here
yesterday September 26th, 2021
where both of us live
within one bedroom unit
at Highland Manor Apartments,
we espied hexagon-shaped paper cells
constituting partially completed
reasonably priced
state of the art abode.
Nevertheless, these
myopic eyes of mine
identified when closeup
tiny sign advertising real estate
large enough to house me,
an average size bugaboo.
Yours truly itching to move
to cozier quarters
no matter facilities roofless
imposing long overdue necessity
to strip down trappings
to bare minimum.
Tricked out with state of the art wizardry
microscopic computer processing chips
adorn six identical geometric sides
indeed allowing, enabling and providing
global linkedin telecommunications
beamed in across
bajillion miles from deep space.
All kidding aside
Hymenoptera quite the builder
with innate abilities as their guide
neither prejudice, nor afflicted with pride.
Ever mindful of insects with diaphanous wings,
yours truly quite aware of pain regarding bee stings,
which commentary brings
me to recall the following incident when
quite so many years ago...
So there she is, a park bench crone, mother of the listless,
the passing-by;
head bowed, caught between dark and light I sense her
yet.
There she is, she’s grown beyond root and branch,
at peace despite the incontinence of an unlooked for
wisdom.
And there I am,
of a sudden snagged by her knurled spell
as if she were the Virgin Mary, and I
a stumbling beast wandering through her stable.
“Look at the sky.” She wheezes
not looking upon me.
It is hard to hold up my cripple-necked creature,
to force my knotted spirit to blunder
up into the muddy air;
low clouds press shut, pewter trap doors
forming a sunken roof.
I want to keep my silence
let only my hot breath snort through stupefied nostrils
but there, on her creaky bench a crone radiates,
as a young girl would
holding her newborn joyfully up to the heavens.
I surface, my mood rocketing upwards
to a roofless place where the ages, are all still babes
rocking in a shining crib.
Shoulders back and head high I stroll past her.
“Good morrow mother,” I say with a light-head
(the archaic phrase seems appropriate, as if now
were already tomorrow).
“Good morrow good beast, will you witness”?
“I shall wise crone,” I reply,
“for am I not almost an angel, part conjurer,
part diviner, part beatific daemon,
a human thing, growing to be ever ageless.”
Together we both laugh out loud again
as children may do.
KING OF NAPOLI (PT. 2)
Bright Altar of the bloodless sacrifice,
sweatless stains drenched your jerseys.
Which armoury delivers this season's Scudetto?
It's the masked number 9 that emerges our hero!
And summoned the spirit of deep emotion,
from the unknown graves of dwindled passion,
where victory was long gone and finally over.
The aura of late king Diego Armando Maradona
Saturate the entire stadia like the scent of confetti.
Night falls on the celebration in the great city,¹°
Shadowy clouds darkened o’er the helm of Naples,
Wind swaying the trees, branches & vegetables...
The firmament yawned; heaven stript bare,
the spirit of Maradona hovers & fills the air.
The Mountains heard the voicing earthquakes,
travelling through those top towers.
Thunderous voices at the metropolitan
rattled roofless halls of fame of our foreign sultan,
where the portraits, statues & banners of Deigo
Stood high & mighty like the great Armando.²°
The whole of Italy & Earth woke out of their slumber;
A blaze of light between two heavens sets asunder;
The first hero of Napolitans bears down
on the new king Osimhen, & wears him the crown.
All hail the King of Napoli.????²
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Form: Rhymes
Copyright ©? May 2023.
Oh lord! Please answer to my questions
Why is there sorrow everywhere?
Why men gain superiority
While women shiver sheathless in the utter winter?
They say children are God’s angels
Then why do the little angels sleep hungry and clotheless?
They say God helps those who help themselves
Then why do poor labourers work hard day and night
And earn nothing more than humiliation?
Why do they starve and survive roofless?
They say God has his eyes on every man
Then why do the criminals roam free
And the innocent men are crucified?
They say God has justice in His court
Then why is there no justice for those
Who have done nothing but good to others?
Where is the justice to the one
Who fights for his own rights?
Why don’t you listen to the hands
Which rise not just for prayer but to help the needy?
Why do true lovers not meet?
Why don’t they deserve blessings and satisfaction?
Why does the child of a soldier,
Who dies during war, not deserve his father’s love and care?
Where is the justice in your court, My lord!
Please, answer to my questions…
P. s. This poem is mainly wriiten on the Condition of Indian society.