Anticipating that most poetry will be worse than carrying heavy luggage through O'Hare Airport, the public, to its loss, reads very little of it.
quote by Russell Baker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pre-departure Dialogues...
now my words
have become
an ordinary conversation
at the pre-departure lounge
of the airport
everyone is anticipating
home minding the number
of their luggage and
checked-in baggage
there are talks
but no one takes them
seriously
on the level of
superficiality...
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A City Sounding like An Airport
trust degree zero for security reasons
one after another one after another one after another through a wind of change through spied eyes
grace under airport-spirited sensation
immigration of free souls
custom channels of suspicious looks
living under the same sky
reality can be touched by scientific imagination
poetry of lost trust
poetry of uncertainty
poetry of freedom
an airport sounding like a city
a city sound like an airport
a voyager of a multi-faceted poem
A Definition of Poetry by a 15 yr old
Poetry does not need a meaning or defintion.
Poetry is how the reader reads it,
Poetry is how the poet writes it.
Poetry is real,
Poetry is fake,
Poetry is everything,
Poetry is fate.
Poetry is rythm.
Poetry can ryme.
Poetry is anything, I make it mine.
poem by Eric Graham
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Opurtunity
Opportunity
Loss it seems is the worst kind of sorrow
Loss of a dream
Loss of a person
But what of the loss of opportunity
Opportunity for a dream
Opportunity for time with a person
Can not having the chance of loss
Be worse than loss itself
More prominent
More painful
An aching sense that if only you’d had the chance
You would at least have memories
Good
Bad
Would it matter as long as you could remember
Loss it seems is the worse kind of sorrow
But worse still is the loss of opportunity
poem by Abigail Hauschild
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the beginning of new life,
Poetry is in the tears of a child,
Poetry is in the warmth of mother's kiss,
Poetry is in the child's bliss,
Poetry is in the hug of a father,
Poetry is in the love of a dear,
Poetry is in the happiness of affection,
Poetry is in the pain of separation,
Poetry is in someone's loss,
Poetry is in missing someone very close.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is in the first rain,
Poetry is in the cultivation of first grain,
Poetry is in the first light of dawn,
Poetry is in the drops of dew o the grass of lawn,
Poetry is in the blowing of cool wind,
Poetry is in the beauty of green,
Poetry is in the twinkling star,
Poetry is in the aroma of a flower,
Poetry is in thunder and lightning,
Poetry is in the heat scorching.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poetry is something more sweeter than sweet,
Poetry is something more closer to heart beat,
Poetry is something more than the most beautiful creation,
Poetry is something more than the depth of an ocean,
Poetry is something more higher than the blue,
Poetry is something more true,
Poetry is something more enjoyable than wine,
Poetry is something more shiner than sunshine,
Poetry is something more pure than air,
Poetry is something which is present everywhere.
Poetry...Poetry...
Poet ry is not just rhyme,
Poetry is but the voice Divine,
Poetry is not just Poetry,
Poetry frames History,
After so many lines,
Poetry still remains undefined.
Poetry...Poetry...
poem by Akash Agrawal
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Im Carrying
By dawns first light Ill come back to your room again
With my carnation hidden by the packages
Im carrying, something
Im carrying something for you
Ah, long time no see baby sure has been a while
And if my reappearance lacks a sense of style
Im carrying, something
Im carrying something for you
Im carrying.
Im carrying, cant help it.
Im carrying.
Im carrying something for you.
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Carousels
I
merry-go-round, at the amusement
park, the laughter of children
and the mothers
as fathers watch,
life
II
this circular conveyor
when you are at the airport
claiming your luggage
and heavy baggages,
because you are all
alone,
hiding from your
misfortune
III
remember the tournament
knights
in horse races
gallantry used to be
valliant
word of honor
IV
& this time
of the year
the trademark of a
circular tray
photographic transparencies
the projector
where you see
your own life
through slots
V
where everything
about you rotates
at the sacrifice of
right direction
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why are we addicted to Poetry?
We Poets who write,
All day or all night,
That Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
There’s scarce a moment in time,
That thoughts don’t find words in rhyme,
To put into verse,
Whether better or worse,
In that Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
Why do we write all these Verses?
We must have better things to do,
But whatever we try,
And I don’t know why,
We write Poem upon Poem for you.
It’s funny how my style has changed,
It’s a Limerick today I’ve composed,
It wasn’t meant to be,
But it is ~ you can see,
Just Poetry! ! Poetry! ! Poetry! !
© Yisroel Yonatan Goldman [JGthepoet] - 26 January 2006
poem by Jonathan Goldman a.k.a JGthepoet
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An act of poetry
Ruin is what we need –
Despair is what we feed
Upon in poetry
A shock resets the nerves –
Helps remould the curves
Of written art
Catharsis helps portray –
Acting out a play
On expurgation
Tears or hidden fears
Release the bottled years
To ink a page:
The pen be our salvation.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Life's Journey
First you take the road to memories
that looms up on your left
then you find yourself on roundabouts
that offer life and death
then take the road to solitude
and the bypass that avoids
the steep hill down to hades
which is when you'll hear the noise
of angels near the airport
all hymns and organ sounds
then take the first road on your right
the one marked 'sacred grounds'
there's a car park there convenient
and a man who marks a card
that indicates precisely
where your car should now be parked
the man who runs this parking lot
st peter is his name
will always wish you all the best
but not invite you back again
it's a short walk to the airport
once you have left your car
you may not know where you're going
but 'departures' is a start
the airport's traffic is unique
it's essentially one way
all outbound flights none inward
all hours of night and day
no need to take your luggage
so please travel very light
just be happy you've been chosen
for God's galactic flight
the cost of one way tickets
the only one's he sells
is that promises you'll always keep
or else you'll go to hell
there's no business class nor first class
all the seats are just the same
and the flight is never-ending
it's just a part of God's great game.
poem by David Keig
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From The Banks Of Ganga: V
I open my eyes
Non-light on the Ganga
Breaking into dawn
A la Kubja stood as if waiting
For me to open my eyes
Kabhie Krishna ko dekha?
Chalo meri saath!
Like a mute animal
I follow her into a chamber
Where a marble Krishna welcomed me
How long did I sit in His presence?
Hare Rama hare rama
Rama Rama Hare hare
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna Hare Hare
My own chanting
Reverberating in my ears
There flowed Ganga
In bright sunlight…
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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I get pretty much all the exercise I need walking down airport concourses carrying bags.
Lord Krishna
O my Lord! O my Krishna!
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
You are the embodiment of love
you are the divine joy,
you are protector of the religion
all pain and sin, you destroy.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Wicked and cruel king Kansa
put your parents in prison.
You released them from jail
appeared as Vishnu's incarnation.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
As child you led cow herds
had great love for your mother
Grown with magic of your flute
as hero loved by peers and others
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Kansa sent sinful Putana to kill you
by feeding breast's poisoned milk.
She herself was met to her end
you sucked blood, failed her trick.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
He was desperate to kill my Lord
So he sent many other demons.
You defeated all of the demons
killed his wicked men one by one.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Supported villagers and cattle,
lifted mountain to make shelter,
You killed poisonous snake in river
where cattle used to drink water.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
Always blessed, who followed your path
taught Arjuna lessons of truth and war.
You turned result of Mahabharat war
into the victory of righteous Pandwas.
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
You come on earth again and again
to save it; in various incarnations.
Without you my Lord! I am nothing
in this universe, nothing can happen.
O my Lord! O my Krishna!
Hare Krishna! Hare Krishna!
poem by S.D. Tiwari
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Hari Chrishna
People with light orange cloaks
comes pass in a jolly procession.
There are two hitting drums
and one sings over a loudspeaker horn
and I see a few
getting rattling noises out of cymbals
that makes the people
on the sidewalk stand still
while the small group of people
draws attention and pass.
It’s a shrill “hare krishna hare krishna
krishna krishna hare hare
hare rama hare rama
rama rama hare hare”
that goes right through you
and I wonder
what the strange words
are exactly saying
and I hear how the drums
keeps the earthly rhythm
and it’s like a street circus
that disappears in the distance
while they disappear behind buildings.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Brainwashed
Brainwashed in our childhood
Brainwashed by the school
Brainwashed by our teachers
and brainwashed by their rules
Brainwashed by our leaders
By our Kings and Queens
Brainwashed in the open and brainwashed
behind the scenes
God God God
A voice cried in the wilderness
God God God
it was on the longest night
God God God
An eternity of darkness
God God God
Someone turned out the spiritual light
Brainwashed by the Nikkei
Brainwashed by Dow Jones
Brainwashed by the FTSE
Nasdaq and secure loans
Brainwashed us from Brussels
Brainwashing us in Bonn
Brainwashing us in Washington
Westminster in London
God God God
You are the wisdom that we seek
God God God
The lover that we miss
God God God
Your nature is eternity
God God God
You are Existance, Knowlwedge, Bliss
The soul does not love, it is love itself
It does not exist, It is existence itself
It does not know, It is knowledge itself
"How to Know God" Page 130
They brainwashed my great uncle
Brainwashed my cousin Bob
They even got my grandma when she was
working for the mob
Brainwash you while you're sleeping
While you're in a traffic jam
Brainwash you while you're weeping
While still a baby in your pram
Brainwashed by the Military
Brainwashed under duress
Brainwashed by the media
You're brainwashed by the press
Brainwashed by computer
Brainwashed by mobile phones
Brainwashed by the satellite
Brainwashed to the bone
God God God
Won't you lead us through this mess
God God God
From the places of concrete
God God God
Nothing's worse than ignorance
God God God
I just won't accept defeat
God God God
Must be something I forgot
God God God
Down on Bullshit Avenue
God God God
If we can only stop the rot
God God God
Wish that you'd brainwash us too
Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare Mahadev
Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare
Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
Hare Hare Hare Hare Mahadeva
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
Namah Parvarti Pataya Hare Hare
Namah Parvarti Pataye Hare Hare
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
Shiva Shiva Shankara Mahadeva
song performed by by George Harrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Calling O'Hare an airport is like calling the Queen Elizabeth II a boat.
quote by Andrew H. Malcolm
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Gun
The man has a gun
He knows how to use it
Nine millimeter browning
Lets see what he can do
Hell point at your mouth
Say that hell blow your brains out
Dont you mess with me
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Dont you mess with me
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Dont mess with me
Ooohhh, carrying a gun
Get over there
Move slowly
Ill put a hole in your face
If you even breathe a word
Tell the lady to lie down
I want, ah, you to be sure to see this
I wouldnt want you to miss a second
Watch your wife
Carrying a gun
Shooting with a gun
Dirty animal
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Watch you face
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
Carrying a gun
The animal dies with fear in his eyes
With a gun
Dont touch him, dont touch him
Stay away from him, hes got a gun
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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0299 Customs and Excise
The postman who never looks me in the face
(was it something the garlic said?)
has just delivered a parcel
heavy with history
and I’m left holding it and wondering
what I’m holding
In 1972 Marina Vlady, the film actress
who had found favour with the
appropriate authorities
was handed a suitcase at Moscow’s
Sheremetevo Airport by the poet
Yeveny Yevtushenko; it contained
in its 15 kilograms of manuscript,
the lifeblood of 245 Russian poets
It took until 1993 for this to be published;
my –(how can I dare to call it my) –
Russian-red-covered,1078-page copy
of this great event, this blood transfusion of poetry,
entered Brooklyn Public Library
on November 12,1993
only to be removed from the shelf
on February 12,1996
scrawled ‘mutilated’ and stamped
‘withdrawn from free use in
city cultural welfare institutions…’
all because some reader (some émigré
rediscovering his own ‘mutilated’ culture
‘withdrawn from free use’,
in the winter warmth of
Brooklyn Public Library?)
has pencilled an implied question or two by underlining
the translation of ‘My Leafless Maple Tree’
by the universally beloved Sergey Yesinin
and offered an alternative word
in shaky English which looks more like Cyrillic,
in the comment ‘he diverted himself with heavy drinking’,
for the word ‘diverted’…
now I notice also on this page 290
headed ‘Children of the Golden Age’
a small dampness which could be a tear.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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I Dont Write Poetry!
i dont write poetry...
i sweat poetry, i drink poetry,
i breathe poetry, i make love to poetry,
i fight poetry, i eat poetry,
i bleed poetry, i crap poetry...
too often i betray poetry,
sometimes i dropp poetry.
once i tripped over poetry,
got angry and kicked poetry.
i rocked poetry on a sleepless night,
i buried poetry on the hill...
i lived poetry, for i am poetry...
no, i dont write poetry,
but poetry writes me!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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This Dog
There is a dog
A blood hound,
An ebony glare,
Finagled into believing
That the Sun is amused
In his own waiting.
There is a dog,
A surfeit among the pack
Carrying a luggage,
Meandering past the pavements,
Stops in his traversing
To freeze beside a street lamp,
Or an anticipating mailbox
Of satiety.
The dog sniffed,
And thrashed the vestiges
With his woebegone paw
Of gentle touch.
Two fangs blatantly lingering
In his snout-like structure of a jaw.
His eyes lost mirth,
Look at this dog of nonchalance,
Dog of lost chance,
Of tacit howls and wails,
Of taciturn oneness.
This servile creature,
Disgusted,
Bereaved,
Mutilated,
Castigated by grandiose decisions
For filthy, frigid and disgusting entities.
This dog,
This acquiescent dog
Can no longer vie.
Perhaps in his spine,
In his canine structures,
In his aroma of a disheveled beast,
He is dog-tired.
Mundanely exhausted.
poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr
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