A War a Mother lost
A single mother barely
out of teen
Toils hard in a
voracious army canteen
Prepares fuel for the
killer machines
So she can afford to
cook at home
Her son, a sapling
is ten months old
And her relatives
have miseries untold
She refused a
posting in war
Coz her lone son
may suffer
emotional scars
A war in which
whoever win
Humanity is sure
to cry and whine.
But no one is going
to heard child’s plea
Because she has been
jailed for disobeying
state’s decree.
Somewhere a
volcano dormant
for centuries
emits fire
Perhaps angry at
heavenly sire.
(After reading a news that a single mom, was jailed after she refused a posting in war zone)
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
19/11/09
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Related quotes
20 Years Imprisonment
Jailed for 20 years!
The Pastor was jailed for 20 years imprisonment for,
Defiling a 15-year-old girl;
And, he was convicted on his own plea.
The complainant,
Presenting,
Accompanied,
To the hilly site;
And he forcibly entered her!
But today, he is jailed for 20 years.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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An Insurance of Universe
After reading news
That in years few
Universe will collapse
So to get solace
I ran to the Insurance Company
with request to insured the universe completely
And to my utter surprise
The crooked company readily obliged.
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
29/12/2008
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Strings Of Freedom
walk with me..
you and me, not separate
our poem is totality
and our poetry,
is all months,
from january..
to december.
walk with me..
where to decide
the strings of poetry
mixed with both,
the guitar's strings
and the strings..
of all seasons.
walk with me..
it's me, who guides
to all strings,
which said no
and refused to sleep
but refused not..
to dream.
walk with me..
i'm still to wait
for all strings,
walking in time
and resisting,
being jailed..
in the guitar.
poem by Ahmed Khaled
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The mother and the artist
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling
instant of robustly blessed existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbreakably Omnipotent desire; every unfurling
instant of victoriously effulgent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unceasingly reinvigorating fantasy; every
unfurling minute of poignantly charismatic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of insurmountably intrepid enchantment; every
unfurling minute of rhapsodically unhindered existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Omnisciently tranquil serenity; every unfurling
instant of endlessly bestowing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of perpetually fragrant breath; every unfurling
instant of Omnipresently benevolent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Immortally ardent love; every unfurling instant
of limitlessly fructifying existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fantastically alleviating poetry; every
unfurling instant of boundlessly splendid existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fabulously effervescent tanginess; every
unfurling instant of spiritually uplifting existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unlimitedly enlightening Sunshine; every
unfurling instant of infallibly luminescent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of immaculately godly melody; every unfurling
instant of amiably melanging existence,
Because. And Only Because. A Mother is; has and shall for times immemorial
remain the Greatest Sculptor of every organism on this astoundingly
multiplying Universe; A Mother is the Greatest Artist….
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Which Disease You Suffer From?
Those who are having an obsession
to make their bodies thin suffer
from, 'Anorexia Nervosa'.
Those who are having an obsession
to make their bodies muscular suffer
from, 'Bigorexia Nervosa'.
Those who are having an obsession
to make their bodies perfect
suffer from, 'Athletica Nervosa'.
Those who are preoccupied with an
imaginary defect of their body
suffer from, Body Dysmorphic Disorder”.
Those who love their bodies
while yelling, “To hell with the world”
suffer from, “Narcissistic Disorder”.
Those who refuse to take care
of bodies while shouting, ” To hell with it”
suffer from, 'Diogenes Syndrome'.
Hey! Buddy, Which disease you suffer from?
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
05/05/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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My Cross
I too was nailed to a cross of sorrow,
Bore the pain that can singe marrow.
With a frail armor of witticism,
I braved the arrows of criticism
and a sharp lance of cynicism.
While traversing through
raging bushfire of jeers
I survived on thorny cactus
of insults and assuaged thirst
with my blood tinged tears.
With loneliness as a sole mate,
I slept on a thorny bed of hostile fate
and swallowed a sea of causeless hate.
While resting on scalding
volcanic recesses,
My bleeding feet surmounted
a steep Pyrrhic success.
But now,
Threaten me not
Oh! earthly mortal,
Who drinketh earthly water
For I sippeth heavenly nectar.
Baptized by divine fire
Touched by heavenly sire:
Immune to rejection
Immune to dejection.
Back off, lay off, stay off
Give up your puerile thoughts
Threaten me not, Threaten me not!
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
19/03/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Single Is Fair
Single
I am single
Question of double
Does not arise.
I am single
Only single.
Single sun
Single moon
Single earth
Single air
Single sky
Sngle water
Single fire
Single soul
Single body
All are there
All are fair.
Single is single
Single is beautiful
Single is fair.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Coming Out
In the world full of mads
He confessed he is sane-
At last he comes out.
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
20/07/09
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Ode to Karate
He practiced karate with verve
And suddenly sharp pain shot through his nerve
And his heart started to rejoice
Hearing his beloved God’s voice
Saying that he delighted in him the most
For he used the muscle
Which’s function was lost.
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
03/05/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Mosquito's Feast
A humming mosquito said: gun, gun, gun,
For greatest ever feast come, come, come.
Party area is a house of SHETH,
And venue is his lush dark pate.
Angelic Anopheles and Cute Culex* are special guests,
And black trouser is place for rest.
Special item is blood of HITESH,
Our greatest enemy, whom I detest.
Coil, Net and Mat may prove hitch,
But, 'Arise, awake and stop not till goal is reached.'**
Please keep your children at bay,
From a newest mosquito killer spray.
With God’s grace destroy devilish plan,
And with malaria wipe out evil human clan.
*Anopheles and Culex are species of mosquito
**Arise, awake and stop not till goal is reached-Saying of Swami Vivekananda.
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
28/09/2008
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Child Marriage
Oft an adults with childish mentality do marriage
With an aim to travel in life’s joyful carriage.
On fate’s tortuous road of uncertainty
With an aim to sing life’s joyous ditty
The coach drawn by colts of happiness cum sorrow.
Rushes on a road winding up to morrow
Then a wanton fantasy running amok
Mates with a desire running wild
And in due course produces a sacrificial child.
Then, adult children with unfulfilled goals,
Imprison poor newborns in their ambition’s gaol.
They prod tiny tots with a goad of desires
Till their limbs gets tired and hearts emits fire.
The fools trying to fulfill goals in a vicarious way
Unknowingly extinguish the newborn rays.
The child born in an accident
Complains in a front of providence:
In muffled prayers or screams
To rescue his brutally raped dreams.
Thus their desire abuses new born child
Who is yet to shed innocence’s guild.
Eventually the carriage falls in
a dolorous dell,
And the progenies that
begets in the hell,
fight like Cain and Abel.
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
02/06/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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What Will You Do With The Ball My Friend
What Will You Do With The Ball My Friend
I don’t know how you did it
But you drew me out of my shell
You made me let the world know
My name and who I really am
And now that the cat is out of the bag
I just thought that I should let you know
That if you continue to hide behind other names
As I have done in the past
You will surely drive me away
I thought that you might email me a few poems
You had hundreds to choose from
But you didn’t email me a single one
No big deal
So I guess that there is not much more that I can do
This has turned into a dire situation
I guess that you can say that it is now do or die
If you do not start posting poems under your true name
I personally feel and believe that I will turn around
And walk away
No more of your haunting me in the nite
No more of my posting poems for you
etc. etc. etc.
The ball is in your court and the clock is ticking
What will you do with the ball my friend
Edwin Tanguma © 11/28/2011
poem by Edwin Tanguma
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A Zen Monk
Calm Sage
Indifferent
Unconcerned
Waited
PATIENTLY.
And Poor Problem
Tired of
For want of attention
Solved itself
COMPLETELY.
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
11/12/2008
PS: There is a level of consciousness in which solution precedes problem.And problem comes to give delight, which we get while solving some puzzle which's answer is already known
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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The Ultimate Game
The Creator asks to
the adventurous soul
Who returned to heaven
with a thrill seeking bowl.
The Creator asks:
“Did you enjoyed the game
of your staged abduction,
Which was done at non-
descript railway junction.
For that you merrily
bought the ‘Kidnap Package’,
And for few hours they
stuffed you in a cage.”
The Soul replies:
“Yes the fake game
was loaded with fun
But I want a real
not a virtual one.”
“Boring was the king’s
role I played
Outwardly men praised,
inwardly they flayed.
Cadger’s role, was same
Begging is a monotonous game.
As Casanova I chased girls
And saint’s life was dull.
“Now give me something new
An event that is bolt from blue
And challenged my dormant sinews.”
The Creator says:
So be it
But then you’ll writhe in pain
Look at the heaven in vain
Will call me names
Call your existence a bane
Do you still want that deal
The deal wrapped with thrill
in which you’ll cry and squeal.
The soul replies:
So what if the plan is botch up
And my body has to suffer much
I know you’ll gift me a new mortal coil
And again send me on earthly soil
I’ll again play and toil
Till adrenaline causes my blood to boil.
Somewhere in background
Angels sing in sweetish sound:
'Seek and you shall find,
Ask and you shall receive.'
(After reading the news that for 900 euros, the clients of a firm in France, can buy a “Basic Kidnap Package”, where they’re bundled away, bound an gagged and kept incarcerated for four hours, Times of India,25/02/2010)
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
26/02/2010
poem by Hitesh Sheth
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Single Child I Am...
A single child i am,
in my lovely nest,
with my loving dad and mom.
A single child i am,
flowing in the oceans of love
with loneliness all around.
My ways are haunted,
My talks are monologues,
My dreams are aimless,
A single child i am.
No hands to hold me,
No chocolates to share with,
No toys to fight for,
A single child i am.
A single child i am,
with sacks of love to give,
with lots of care to express,
with more of happiness to share,
A single child i am.
poem by Ann Mary Thomas
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If You Could See
If you could see into the nature of a single thought,
what it really is, though you think you know already,
if you could for one moment as old as the world
stop casting all these handshadows on the moon
as if they were the birds and bedrock of your intelligence,
as if the waves hauled the sea around in chains,
as if the leaves were a language without roots,
you would stop reading yourself like a prophecy in your own bones,
and be brought to your knees like a bull
penetrated by the seven swords of insight
and realize the unwitnessed clarity of the emptiness
that suggested you to you out of its dark abundance
is also the bright vacancy of this world that keeps you company.
All these intimate secrets of yourself
you keep posting to the sky like stars
or the single shoes and milkcartons of the missing
when you go looking for yourself like knowledge
in the eyeless spirit's lost and found;
why don't you, just for once and ever,
treat yourself to a season of your own, and shed them;
open your fist like a tree and let them go into the big O of omega,
hold yourself up like a candle to a black hole
and see what's deep inside
when the world's turned inside out
like a gallery at night without pictures?
If you listen, if you learn to listen deeply
with your eyes and your blood
with the intensity and focus of a hunting cat,
you can hear the crazy keys to freedom
jingling everywhere like flowers jailed by the rain
or the sun held for ransom in the siloes of the brain
the moon ploughs and seeds with thoughts of shining.
Once you stop looking for continuity in the emptiness
you'll come to realize that emptiness
is the fountain-mouth of its own theme
and it's the dream not the dreamer that's in play
when a fish suddenly jumps like a thought
and there are ripples on the moon.
Who comes like an explorer without a flag
before an undiscovered sea of light
and stands before it like a spoon?
Raise the well of your darkest night up to your lips
and drink it drier than the eyes
of the lover who gave up crying over you
once she opened up like the mouth of a river
and entrusted herself like an aimless thought to the sea.
Hold yourself up like the Hubble
to the vastness of the darkness and the shining
to the largesse of the night in its open-handed radiance,
to the imageless wisdom of the mother you don't know
who abides in your seeing like a compassionate shadow
and the intangible mystery of the mother of forms that you do,
and drink yourself down to the last star
to ever lay eyes upon you.
poem by Patrick White
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Apples + Oranges
What if the sun refused to shine?
What if the clouds refused to rain?
What if the wind refused to blow?
What if the seas refused to wave?
What if the world refused its turn?
What if the stars would hesitate?
What if what is isn't true?
What are you going to do?
What if what is isn't you?
Does that mean you've got to lose?
Digging for the feel of something new
What if the silence let you dream?
What if the air could let you breathe?
What if the words would bring you here?
What if this sound could bring you peace?
What if what is isn't true?
What are you going to do?
Digging for the feel of something new
What if what is isn't you?
Does that mean you've got to lose?
It came from your thoughts
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins from Adore
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Used-Up
Many people
one might meet.
On city sarcophagus street.
Are dead.
It’s just.
No one...
has gotten around,
to burying them yet.
This is what became
of the brokenhearted!
Who refused
to get their act together!
Who refused
to walk with faith!
Who refused
to embrace the light!
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Pareidolia- A Way of Perception
A depressed Guy
Was staring at sky,
Abruptly a form popped up
Assembled from
The lonely wandering clouds,
Appeared to him
Weeping inconsolably;
Suddenly, the warm joy welled up from within,
And the same clouds colluded to carve out,
A laughing form.
(Pareidolia is the phenomenon of finding familiar images in random scenes, like faces in clouds or religious icons in root vegetables)
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
24/05/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Now that time flies past
Now that time flies past
this will be seen
as Afrikaner history
and people will say
that it is past
but we know
he was jailed
like a criminal,
was later Prime Minister
and then President
(and it’s not Nelson Mandela
that I am talking about)
this man was a true Afrikaner
and seen by some
as a patriot
Maybe planted bombs
to blow up railway lines
and held a gun in his hand,
seen at a time
by white people
as a terrorist
and was jailed for it
but wasn’t a killer
like the terrorists of today
and later
he could take
the Big Black Book
in his hand
and on it make a solemn oath
before the Lord
and try to keep his promise,
until the big crocodile
snapped him in two
and walked into his shoes
and the total onslaught came
and eland armoured cars, later ratels,
artillery and rocket launching lorries
stood in Angola
to hit the communists
into pieces.
poem by Gert Strydom
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