Long Stomachs Poems
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She's up in the morning
two hours before dawn
has done most of her chores
before the lights come on
Already milked the cows
and gathered up the eggs
even put liniment
on the horse’s sore legs
Bacon and eggs are cooked
the biscuits are baked brown
the gravy has been stirred
and the plates laid down
Once the pans are empty
the last bread's been buttered
the men tack their horses
while she clears the clutter
Now a fifty mile drive
just to get to the store
to pick up the supplies
they have been waiting for
Time to fry the chicken
and put beef in the beans
cause stomachs on the ranch
are never full it seems
After serving the meal
and cleaning up the mess
she'll ride out to the range
and work beside the rest
She has to be able
to ride fence, rope and brand
just as good as any
of those other hired hands
When the day is over
tired and hungry as hell
the men wash up and get
set for the supper bell
She'll be in the kitchen
cooking vittles again
Cause work for a ranch wife
never comes to an end
An hell in a concrete jungle
--------------------------------------
We have already turned as animals and
we lost our sixth sense for the stomach
Filling the stomachs and running back to currencies
have taken our days and years
Love has turned as nasty lust on roads and
romance has lost it’s purity
Violence encroaches everything of us
Peace that has lost it’s life and burried in the land of demons
God is help less .yes god is help less here
to help humen beings in this concrete jungle
Heavens have vanished and
this planet and people changed this as an hell
SakthiRavichandran
a call to the selfless and purity to this world
SAKTHI RAVICHANDRAN
The words of the Zulu coconut,
a once coveted souvenir
from an indulgent visit
to festive Mardi Gras.
As our hero speaks
two mice nibble
unobserved
at his
coat.
"Beads
were slung;
doubloons cast.
Grasping tourists
seized the trifling throws.
Floats advanced in the queue
krewes tossed their tokens wildly.
Prize gifts are meant to be given.
So I, Zulu, went from hand to hand."
Meanwhile a mischief of mice emerged
to attack Zulu's varnished coat.
As they quickly devour him,
his paint began its work
within their stomachs
to do the same.
Zulu's last
witnessed
speech:
"Far
better
to restock
the soil of earth.
Better to be spent
as nourishment to some.
Better still to end this life
by sprouting as a seed of hope.
Better than this: "paint may be toxic."
I wake before sunrise, when the rooster’s cry splits the silence like a conch shell blown at dawn. In the yard, the mapou tree stands upright, as if it has an appointment with the sky. Grandmother used to say the mapou never forgets. Its roots guard the secrets of the ancestors even when the winds grow restless.
I walk on the red earth, dust clinging to my heels like the country’s signature. Each grain carries a story: enslaved bodies rising into revolution, women in the markets lifting nations with baskets on their heads, poets writing with hunger in their stomachs but fire in their eyes. The sea is not far — it applauds against the rocks, as if repeating, We are still here.
Amid the noise of tap-taps and vendors calling, “Hot rice and beans!”, I hear a drum in the distance. It is not only music — it is the heartbeat of a people. It sounds even when exhaustion bends our backs, even when politics gathers heavy clouds. The drum knows this secret: roots do not die easily.
I pause and close my eyes. I remember the blue and red flag — not merely colors, but a mark of dignity. They may tear the cloth, but they cannot unravel its meaning.
Red earth beneath my feet,
the mapou grips the years tight —
the sea does not forget.
Naughty Children
Naughty children pick their nose's
And smear their clothes
Playful and mischievous
They belong to Jesus
Naughty kids are fast kids
They catch butterflies
With big smiles they show you
How quick their fingers are
Naughty children jolly play
Even in the cold
They don't get distressed
They chew yummy gum
Naughty kids climb
Are always up and down
With a lot of smile about
Laughing happily when they fall.
Naughty kids like
Movies and toast
Do not disturb
On their full stomachs.
Naughty kids kick
Everything broken
They run away
With fast legs soon.
Naughty children show
You how to forgive
With their wet cheeks
After you shame their bottom.
Naughty kids share
Anything together
And raise to adults
They cutely greet.
Haughty children
Are the brats rude
Who count teeth and
Mind the business of adults.
Dear Blue Beauty
Oh Dear Blue beauty
You covered the entire earth as blue lace
Your powerful tides guard this earth as a fence
You changed, your self as a mighty force
to the quakes of the earth
The world became as the water globe by
Your angry tides at your red seconds
Your beauty before the storm
Is the subject of our poets
Come to my verse to beautify my lines
You are the healer of Hot burning sun and
You drag the rain to make this as evergreen
You are the best mother of this world
Come to verse to beautify my lines
You are the donor of our hunger stomachs and
You are the intimate friend of black clouds
You are the symbol of deep patience
Come to my verse to beautify my lines
I bubble and I gurgle,
I’m tangy and I’m tasty.
Unless you stop drinking me,
Because if you do that, you really won’t be able to stand my taste later.
Believe me, I do not care.
I don’t need the few of you who don’t adore me.
Because so many others truly admire my gassy stomach bubbles.
They don’t care that I’m tearing the enamel off of their teeth
In the 1960’s we tried to sell my cousin as a hot drink, remember?
That worked a few Friday nights at parties of pre-teen girls.
My cousin was all puffed up when those commercials came on TV.
I have always been special.
Usually, poured into punch bowls with sherbet ice cream,
Or doled into children’s mouths when they needed their stomachs soothed.
My can is gorgeous; with the contrasting colors, both Christmas-like and bright.
My distant relatives are usually red or brown - crass, harsh, rude even.
Were you around in the 70’s when they used to make shoes using my logo?
Boy, I was all of that then!
A Star Shines in Alba’s Sky
Star shines above a frosty mountain where sheep in summer grazed,
Bright shining ones gathered in vast numbers to praise,
Snow fell to cover the granite rock and where heroes lay in the ground.
Murdered by those they gave a place round the fire hearth,
Raised a glass in toast to their health warming hearts and stomachs both,
In the dark of night up they arose creeping to lift their muskets long,
Ready tae betray hospitality freely given an murder those innocent souls.
In daurk winter nicht fled tae the hills towards the shepherd o the glen,
Rifles spat fire like lightning flash in a storm,
Swords flashed briefly under moonlichts bricht gaze.
Afore hiding behind passing clouds misty haze.
Oot oan the hills shivering in nichts cauld,
Dying amongst heathers embrace under a moons gaze,
Forgotten they lie brave warriors true an bold.
Stars shine down in a highland glen,
Oan Albas finest forsaken people all for a pittance,
What a price tae pay for being a little late.
Andrew McIntyre..28/12/2020.
They love to play a game they call ‘Let’s Imagine’ because they never know the things that they will do or the places they will go.
They might imagine they’re riding on a cloud…or walking among the stars…that they are sitting on the edge of a crescent moon their next stops…Jupiter and Mars.
They might imagine themselves on a pirate ship upon the ocean…standing on its deck…or speeding across the sky holding on to the back of a dragon’s neck.
It’s funny how, in their imaginations, you will always find…the pirates are good pirates…and their dragons…gentle and kind.
They might imagine themselves inside a bubble soaring high above the land…or performing in front of thousands of people as the leaders of a band.
They might imagine each raindrop is a different color…or riding with the toys on Santa’s sleigh…or a world where pizza is the only meal…served three times every day.
They might imagine they are in a field filled with ice cream, candy and cakes…where nothing ever melts and their stomachs never ache.
They might imagine they are gliding with the birds or swimming with the fishes in the sea…for they have the power to imagine themselves to be anything they want to be.
“They have such wild imaginations!”
That’s what their teachers and their parents say…
which always makes the smile…
because
they can’t imagine being any other way.
I wake up already tired,
eyes heavy from screens and sleepless nights,
stomachs empty, wallets thinner than dreams,
parents fighting over bills, over nothing,
over everything.
at school, the hallways are battlefields,
words sharper than fists,
hands that shove, mouths that sneer,
judgment like a plague
spreading from locker to locker.
I scroll through images of perfection,
faces carved by filters, bodies built in mirrors,
wondering why I don't look that way,
why I don't feel that way,
why I don't fit at all.
I pull at my skin,
I whisper my names in secret,
I wonder if I should even be here—
this world that tells me
I am too much, or not enough,
so I start cutting.
I was born into a losing hand,
and nobody told me
that I could still bluff my way to something good.