Poets of Uganda (1976)
Whatever happened
To the poets of Uganda?
In the meantime –
We were as perfect as their bones could predict
We could not squander what they did not achieve
They heavy dead
We light and loving
Too human for politics
Deaf to abasement, to dictator’s fame
To the cackle of the fisted man
In the hours of giving
Please live with us, they say
Please touch us lovingly
I will be a husband to my brothers
Give you passion gently
Dwelling at your beauty
For all our poet-sakes.
poem by Frank Bana
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I Am Not The Poet's Poet But Perhaps The Would- Be- Poet's Would-Be Poet
I AM NOT THE POET’S POET BUT PERHAPS THE WOULD- BE- POETS WOULD – BE –POET
I am not the poet’s poet-
The one poets of name and fame admire-
But perhaps the would- be- poets would be – poet-
Who tries to be a poet
And tries to understand what it means
To love poetry and live by writing it
Even when the world does not recognize me..
.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Perfect Flower
growing out of the ground
digging deep and far
topped with beauty
emmitting the fragrance of love
brittle through the body
strong in the roots
but thats all that matters
for that keeps them going
shining its beauty
letting everyone see it
all the time
spreading its sweet smell
with everyone that comes in contact
making them happy
sorting through the flowers
searching for the only one
that can fill the hole
that he has dug
he sees it in his sight
the sweet aroma
the loving vibe
the joy it gives his heart
the beauty
the perfect flower
gently grasping it
choosing it for his taking
only a few faults show
but the beauty overshadows the faults
in his eyes nothing's better
noone could ever replace her
with this flower his hole is full
it's the perfect fit
giving this flower
radiating with its majestic beauty
to his one true love
the perfect flower to the perfect love
you're all i want
all I've ever dreamed of
and in this perfect flower
our love will live on
poem by Joshua Norton
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Let Our Knuckles Touch
Let our knuckles touch.
In ball fisted softness.
Once flung prepared to land a punch.
But not today.
This is a way we show we can be brothers.
Some sisters do this too.
And let our eyes stop rolling in our heads,
Like dice ready to shoot!
Let us fix our gaze.
And remove the pouts from our lips.
Experience our beauty...
Let us do!
Unstead of our ugliness.
Since so many of us,
Can no longer afford this 'trip'.
Let our knuckles touch.
In ball fisted softness.
Or open up our arms...
To welcome an embrace!
'Gimme sum-a dees...
'for I go up side yo head! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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God's Poets, Love & A Good Poem
GOD'S POETS
The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal
For it's God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose
To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.
One merit of a poet's work
Which most cannot deny.
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.
God sent His poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth.
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.
EVERY OTHER NIGHT
If it was left to me and my desire
I would seek satisfaction every other night.
I would enjoy your divine, God given love
And hold you forever close and tight.
Every other night would be Heavenly for me
Though I must respect and honor what you do and say.
My need for you is far greater than your need for me
As I patiently wait for our time of play.
I will always remain watchful, loving and caring
Not to hurt, destroy, mistrust, dissatisfy or offend.
Out of all God's blessings from Heaven to Earth
You're my greatest treasure, passion and friend.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song
You can't help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for
It makes us want to love someone
Till death comes knocking at our door.
Tom's 465 Poems Are Free To Share!
By God's Poet
Tom Zart
Most Published Poet
On The Web!
Tom Zart www.internetvoicesradio.com/t_zart/
The poet's page
Like a band of beggars
Revealing to each other
Where to find the bread
Is the poets page
An open line
Where poets reveal what's
Inside their heads
A platform of
Artistic exchange
Where an accompany of poets
Express what should be said,
As the
Words seems to take on life
For they are poet read
Poets can feel one anothers pain
As well as relates to each
others shame
Emphasizing on a topic is
A poet's personal lane
Poets dvides the spoil
As they expand, due to
sharing their gain
This is partly my analogy
Of a poet's fame
poem by Angel A. Lockwood
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God's Poets A Good Poem & Love
GOD'S POETS
The prize jewels of any nation
Are the philosophers of the heart.
How they think is universal
For it's God who makes them so smart.
Most poets tell the truth of life
Though they may wrap it in beauty.
It's their passion, not their purpose
To compose is but their duty.
Poets have no reason to lie
When the truth is always so clear.
All that others say and do
Is but food for the poet's ear.
One merit of a poet's work
Which most cannot deny.
They say more and in fewer words
To illuminate you and I.
God sent His poets down to earth
With words of wisdom and of worth.
That they might touch the souls of men
And bring them back to Him again.
A GOOD POEM
A good poem paints a picture
For both your heart and brain.
It doesn't need a second chance
To make its meaning plain.
A good poem is like the flower
The lily or the rose.
God plants it in a poet's brain
And there its beauty grows.
A good poem like a cardinal
Is pregnant with song
You can't help but hear its message
As it sings what's right or wrong.
A good poem helps us remember
What the joys of life are for
It makes us want to love someone
Till death comes knocking at our door.
The Indications
THE indications, and tally of time;
Perfect sanity shows the master among philosophs;
Time, always without flaw, indicates itself in parts;
What always indicates the poet, is the crowd of the pleasant company
of singers, and their words;
The words of the singers are the hours or minutes of the light or
dark--but the words of the maker of poems are the general light
and dark;
The maker of poems settles justice, reality, immortality,
His insight and power encircle things and the human race,
He is the glory and extract thus far, of things, and of the human
race.
The singers do not beget--only the POET begets;
The singers are welcom'd, understood, appear often enough--but rare
has the day been, likewise the spot, of the birth of the maker
of poems, the Answerer, 10
(Not every century, or every five centuries, has contain'd such a
day, for all its names.)
The singers of successive hours of centuries may have ostensible
names, but the name of each of them is one of the singers,
The name of each is, eye-singer, ear-singer, head-singer, sweet-
singer, echo-singer, parlor-singer, love-singer, or something
else.
All this time, and at all times, wait the words of true poems;
The words of true poems do not merely please,
The true poets are not followers of beauty, but the august masters of
beauty;
The greatness of sons is the exuding of the greatness of mothers and
fathers,
The words of poems are the tuft and final applause of science.
Divine instinct, breadth of vision, the law of reason, health,
rudeness of body, withdrawnness,
Gayety, sun-tan, air-sweetness--such are some of the words of
poems. 20
The sailor and traveler underlie the maker of poems, the answerer;
The builder, geometer, chemist, anatomist, phrenologist, artist--all
these underlie the maker of poems, the answerer.
The words of the true poems give you more than poems,
They give you to form for yourself, poems, religions, politics, war,
peace, behavior, histories, essays, romances, and everything
else,
They balance ranks, colors, races, creeds, and the sexes,
They do not seek beauty--they are sought,
Forever touching them, or close upon them, follows beauty, longing,
fain, love-sick.
They prepare for death--yet are they not the finish, but rather the
outset,
They bring none to his or her terminus, or to be content and full;
Whom they take, they take into space, to behold the birth of stars,
to learn one of the meanings, 30
To launch off with absolute faith--to sweep through the ceaseless
rings, and never be quiet again.
poem by Walt Whitman
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“human Doings”
Men forget to live as human beings
'stead, choose live as human doings
Lust, fame, fortune is what they sing
Ignorance is all they've been proving
Wake up brothers n' smell the coffee
Time to see just what you’ve created
You've chosen to act out abhorrently
As It’s selves and Earth you’ve hated
A shift from selfish to selfless, what’s needed
A gift of service toward your ailing brothers’
A gift, countless Masters came n' seeded
A gift, once given you, by loving Mothers
When urge for mischief you overrule
Implement that day 'The Golden Rule”
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Ode to passion
I say, too much passion in us poets,
like a touch of a thousand
saccharine taste invading our veins,
we cannot restrain, we
cannot condemned the only reason for our being,
passion is what keeps us breathing,
passion can make us see it all
different than others,
not to cease, not to die
or give-up, passion grows in our soul,
it reminds us it is there
every minute of our day,
when we need to count the hours
to get to him/her.
Passion is the sedactive to our worst day.
The essential of reason,
the way to a path,
to rivers and streams that find our dreams,
passion is a vessel making a net
reaching our heart our souls
keeping the beat louder and quieter in waves
frequencies, passion is vigor,
is a sparkle in our heart that continually
beats violently and has no outcome.
Passion is un 'Corazon salvaje'.
©ElenaToledo2011
poem by Elenushka Toledo
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An Exhortation
Chameleons feed on light and air:
Poets' food is love and fame:
If in this wide world of care
Poets could but find the same
With as little toil as they,
Would they ever change their hue
As the light chameleons do,
Suiting it to every ray
Twenty times a day?
Poets are on this cold earth,
As chameleons might be,
Hidden from their early birth
In a cave beneath the sea;
Where light is, chameleons change:
Where love is not, poets do:
Fame is love disguised: if few
Find either, never think it strange
That poets range.
Yet dare not stain with wealth or power
A poet's free and heavenly mind:
If bright chameleons should devour
Any food but beams and wind,
They would grow as earthly soon
As their brother lizards are.
Children of a sunnier star,
Spirits from beyond the moon,
O, refuse the boon!
poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Delicious Enough To Eat
There is a limitation about you,
That has to be cleared.
It has to be removed from you...
Since that is not how you appear.
You appear to be someone,
I was suppose to hold once close.
In conversation as well as touch.
Something I want very much!
You appear to be someone...
Loving I could love lovingly.
Someone who could possibly be
That someone I've been longing for!
And that's a 'possibility'
You 'are' that one I've been saving 'this love for...
All my life!
You appear to be someone,
I could live a life with
In devotion!
You appear to be someone,
I could live a life with
In a 'blissling' happiness!
You appear to be someone,
I could live a life with
Being who I am...
And you letting us be who we are.
Together!
If not always locked in passion,
Embracing to ignite heat!
You appear to be someone,
I could live a life with!
Someone delicious
Enough
To eat!
'Honey...?
Why are you looking at me like that?
Here...
Wipe your mouth with this napkin! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A Passion For Money!
Dollar, Euro, Pound, Yen, Dinar or Rupee currencies,
Money passion drives one deep even into the abyss!
Money passion never stops even the sea shrinks to nil
And ends not even camel goes through the eye of needle!
No one can fight in the court to win justice without money;
No one can run politics and win in election without money;
No one can get educated to live quality life without money;
No one can live life as wished in the world without money!
What is God – love or truth or justice or power or money?
Many opt for money as with money only everything is done!
Without money there is nothing in this material world;
Without spiritual grace there is no place in the other world!
As in God everything is contained in money in this world
Why there is so much passion for money let the futures tell!
But just way is first one should earn name by one’s work skill
And by perfection achieve position, power, fame and money!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Aging Poet
Come and see the old poet
Laying in his bed of ashes and dust
His love in ruins
His mentality frozen by restless rust
His hungry heart emptied of it's fertile blood
His souls melodic purpose nearly gone
The mellifluous music now so silent
The end, of a once wonderful and powerful song.
What happened to this poet
With dread you may ask,
The ancient story ofcourse
The evils of age and wear, and so damned many things out there
Working at his heart, fulfilling their wretched task.
When poets speak truth and beauty into this old world
Any breath may be their last
For so many evil spirits will stalk them
With an endless passion to haunt, from the past
The deepest hearts, so oft, become weary and tossed
As all about them seems dreadfully lost
And everything fearful and frustrating and unknown
Becomes thriving weeds where once, long ago
With such ease a radiant, eloquent garden had grown.
Still this old poet wrote
For was his vocation so to do
Even through the battles with doubt
He held on, ever true
Words from his heart
He rended to give
The conundrum being
It cost him his life, to fully live...
So look! Look deep
Here lays the old poet - in state
Having succumbed - like all the living shall
To mankinds unavoidable fate.
May all the aging poets forever
Rest in peace, and ever be blest
For the sempiternal words they lay upon us
- dug with pain from the depths of their souls
Are nothing less than the very best.
(for: Townes Van Zandt)
poem by Smoky Hoss
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The things I love with a passion
I rock and roll with passion
I talk out my soul with a passion
I eat good food with passion
I defeat bad mood with a passion
I sleep well with passion
I weep hell with a passion
I dream endlessly with passion
I gleam ceaselessly with a passion
I aim for money with passion
I do the same for honey with a passion
I listen carefully with passion
I glisten dutifully with a passion
I search for fame with passion
I research to blame with a passion
I walk everyday with passion
I talk and play with a passion
I embrace life with passion
I face nightlife with a passion
I laugh out with passion
I chaffe about with a passion
I cook with others with passion
I look at mothers with a passion
I touch gently with passion
I clutch tightly with a passion
I work hard with a passion
I rock mad with a passion
I gear up goals with passion
I stir up roles with a passion
I make friends with passion
I take weekends with a passion
I love kissing with passion
I love teasing with a passion
I make love with passion
I take from above with a passion
If push comes to shove
Label me old fashioned
For these are things I caption
In life with all my passion
Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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A thank you poem to God
My loving god i hope to touch your heart with the words you have given me,
My loving god i want to thank you for taking all of shameful sins in the wodden cross,
My loving god i want to thank you for being brave and taking all the pain you received that dark day,
My loving god i want to thank you for saving me from the burning flames
My loving god i want to thank you for protecting me every single minute, hour, day, week, month, and year,
My loving god thank you for giving me the opportunity to open my eyes every single day,
Than you god for having a plate of food every day,
My loving god thank you for giving me a wonderful, strong, brave mother,
My loving god thank you for sorrows into joyful hours,
My loving god i can't see you but i believe in you,
My loving god thank you for this wonderful country(U.S.A)
thank you for holding it in your loving arms,
My dear god i can continue to thank you all night long but i need more strenght to continue on,
My loving god have i touched you heart yet or should i continue to thank you till i die?
poem by Juan Duarte
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Tiny Waves
Tiny Waves play in circles on pond's water;
Chilly breeze blows on it in winter.
Marvelous looks the smiling lotus;
She fulfils all Deities desires.
With the touch of breeze lovely lotus tutters;
She provides poets with pleasures.
Paradise's beauty pervades on Earth;
Poets enchant with love affection mirth.
Lily smiles with all glamour;
Moon beam kisses, fulfilling her desire.
Chilly mild breeze attracts traveler's attention;
Poets desire pleasure for enthusiastic depiction.
Pond's beauty is magnified with green creepers;
Peerless beauty attracts the travelers;
Tiny blossoms smile with the touch of light;
In poet's mind pervades delight.
poem by Vavroovahana Patra
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Ridiculous
Ridiculous
To tell the artist
What to sketch and what not
Ridiculous
To tell the poet
What to compose what not.
Only dictator can
Go against the artist
Only dictator can
Go against the poet
Dictator is the symbol of
Destroyer and aggressor.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poet Tree
Rustle, little leaves above, rustle in the breeze...
Rustle, little leaves of love, rustle mid God's peace!
Rustle, every night and day, rustle every hour...
Rustle, rustle, come what may, rustle mid God's power!
Rustle, for then wise words are formed,
Great expectations made!
Through such as these, men's hearts are warmed
And children's prayers are prayed!
Rustle upon the Poet Tree,
Above the poets' ears,
So they may learn each melody,
These God-picked volunteers...
Rustle sweetly, and gently on,
Persist from age to age -
Let all God's poets write upon
Their separate nearby page...
Rustle until all humans die
And no more poets live!
Until no soul would question, 'Why? '
And there's no cause to give!
Rustle until God tells you stop,
'Dear friends, at last, be free...
'Tis time for you to fall, to drop...
Beneath the Poet Tree...
I've loved each poem, every one...
And Jesus loved them, too!
You've blessed the world! Your task is done!
Your rustle days are through...'
poem by Denis Martindale
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Modern Beauty
I am the torch, she saith, and what to me
If the moth die of me? I am the flame
Of Beauty, and I burn that all may see
Beauty, and I have neither joy nor shame.
But live with that clear light of perfect fire
Which is to men the death of their desire.
I am Yseult and Helen, I have seen
Troy burn, and the most loving knight lies dead.
The world has been my mirror, time has been
My breath upon the glass; and men have said,
Age after age, in rapture and despair,
Love's poor few words, before my image there.
I live, and am immortal; in my eyes
The sorrow of the world, and on my lips
The joy of life, mingle to make me wise;
Yet now the day is darkened with eclipse:
Who is there lives for beauty? Still am I
The torch, but where's the moth that still dares die?
poem by Arthur Symons
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