hungry ghost festival
hell note ashes taken
by the night wind
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Related quotes
hungry ghost festival
hell note ashes float
in the night wind
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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hungry ghost festival
night wind sends the hell money
flying in the air
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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hungry ghost festival
hell ash notes fly
in the night lane
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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ghost festival
hell money trails
the night wind
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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hungry ghost festival
a solitary candle flickers
hell money rages in flame
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Mushroom Festival In Hell
We're ween, it's 1991!
And we are here to play you music
Now this song is called "mushroom festival in hell".
The wind is howling and the time is right for fear
In the emergence in the phosphorescent tears
And all the hippies gonna lick the mind of god?
They've already been immersed in the wad
The wind is howling and the sea is boiling down
The mind is the water, the mind is the water
'cause it's a mushroom festival in hell
'cause it's a mushroom festival in hell
Yeah!
song performed by by Ween
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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hungry ghost festival
never seen -
the chairs and their guests
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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hungry ghost festival
candles, food, paper money
and my goosebumps
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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hungry ghost festival
flickering shadows - roasted chickens,
oranges and sweets
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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I remember in 1968 when we were in Cannes, in the festival, and we were supposed to be there 10 days, and the second day the festival collapsed because the French, you know, film-makers raised the red flag in the festival and ended the festival.
quote by Milos Forman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Owl
DOWNHILL I came, hungry, and yet not starved,
Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof
Against the north wind; tired, yet so that rest
Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof.
Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest,
Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I.
All of the night was quite barred out except
An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry.
Shaken out long and clear upon the hill
No merry note, nor cause of merriment,
But one telling me plain what I escaped
And others could not, that night, as in I went.
And salted was my food, and my repose,
Salted and sobered too, by the bird's voice
Speaking for all who lay under the stars,
Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice.
poem by Edward Thomas
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Ghost
I'm like a ghost
Flying in the night
Im in the darkness of light
Im a ghost or at least thats how I feel
Im like a zombie
Things have taken over.
Im like a ghost
Hovering over myself
Looking down at the mess
Labelled with my name
I see the mess below me
The mess is me
Im a ghost of my formal self
Im a ghost that floats above
Im a ghost of life
A ghost of my old self
Half the person I used to be
poem by Amy Louise Kerswell
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A Soul Dies
Sky overcast, moon was sad.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Who killed the bird in morning rain?
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A hidden slaughterman did not die.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
The good old name now spells the doom.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
I will call you in pitch-dark night.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
Ascending gods have ruined my life.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
A child was stolen from a mother’s bed.
Ashes were sent to the lake.
poem by Satish Verma
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My Hell
Kill me, you know you want to
You know you’d love to watch me die
You aren’t happy til I suffer
So go ahead and make your day
The feel of the flames,
A rain of ashes
This must be your heaven
I know it’s my hell
You think you’ve trapped me
You think I’m broken
I am not lost yet
In this living nightmare
The feel of the flames
A rain of ashes
This must be your heaven
I know it’s my hell
You can never win,
I’ll never surrender
This too will end
I will be the victor
I am the flame
I leave you the ashes
This isn’t my heaven
But I’ll make it your hell
poem by Joyce Rugg
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The mystery and the misery of a phoenix
We saw a beautiful bird flew from a stream;
Just a moment ago she was drenched in ashes,
Because she was formed from ashes and wind-
Ashes that resulted from the sacrifice of her parent.
Her aged mother fed up with life, set herself ablaze;
After several years in planet earth she'll have to go;
She needed a companion but nature denied her one;
She could only have one after she's turned to ashes.
poem by Olawale Ogunrinola
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Silly; Religion: Rich Man Vs. Ghost
honest 'scrooge':
The rich man said 'I care not to breed; time's too valuable to sow my ‘seed'.
Money's my own evil, like cotton has its weevil.
All I really care about is greed.'
rich man is warned:
To rich man one eve came a tall ghost. Said the foretelling ghost to his host:
'All money you can save you can take to your grave,
but in Hell you'll still be scorched toast.'
ooh! scary ghost (not) ! :
Rich man to ghost: 'You're not so clever. You'll find I have no panic lever.
L. R. Hubbard did say 'rich men, live for today;
Scientologists live forever'.'
ghost retorts:
Ghost to rich man: 'I have discovered what became of your L. R. Hubbard.
He told a mighty tale, but his beliefs did fail….
to keep him out of the Devil's cupboard.'
rich man retorts back:
Rich man to ghost: 'I believe you're a liar. I think your tail will be on fire.
I would not hire you …to fix the sole of my shoe, …
let alone 'my soul '. You conspire! ! '
ghost gives up! (almost) :
At that the poor ghost his head did scratch, thinking, perhaps, he'd met his match.
Then he saw the TV. He put on channel three,
and Hubbard's broadcast (from Hell) they did catch.
thankful (formerly-rich) man to ghost:
Rich man said: 'Ghost, I believe you indeed! ! You can leave now on your steed.
but first take my money and bring me a ‘honey',
for I've been long overdue to breed! ! '
poem by Bri Edwards
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Hungry Moon (Ghazal)
It slowly creeps across the sky prowling for escapades, that hungry moon.
Darling, come with me, flirt with the night, I’ll protect you from that hungry moon.
We’ll dance the habanera and let it have its way with us all the night.
Then we’ll slip into the darkness under the shadow of that hungry moon.
With the conversation of the dance we’ll outshout cries from that hungry moon.
Together we’ll evade the ever-watching eyes of evry hungry moon.
We’ll outrun the loneliness that has stalked us throughout the slow-turning day.
A long day awaited, gobbled up during the night by a hungry moon.
We’ll look into the dream-lit stars until we’re dizzy, remember this night.
We’ll head for the shadows where it is darkest, away from the hungry moon.
With the swooping and snatching of an owl as it seizes its frozen prey,
I will not leave you in the shadows of the night or prey to that hungry moon.
Like a yelping dog, with the name of Ben, we’ll be racing across the ridge.
Encircled in my arms I’ll protect you then from that ever-hungry moon.
- April 4, ’08
Pulbished by The Ghazal Page online
Go to: www.ghazalpage.net/2008/moon_challenge/2008_moon_ radif.html
poem by Ben Gieske
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God Died
God died last night
and no one noticed...
they'll find the body
in a week or two.
funeral arrangements
in the back of the paper...
no viewing... cremation
is all that could be afforded....
and the world rushes on
in an angry ball of fury;
while children die,
unnoticed and unnamed.
and the homeless and the hungry
are stacked in the ditches...
unholy sacrifices to
His memory....
leaving the unclaimed ashes
to blow in the infidel wind!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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My Taboo
Hollyhocks will not let me go;
hold my hands.
Shying away
they were turning to ashes.
In the night, wisteria
emanates a hungry cry.
Though wind had announced
sun has not kept the promise.
I gasp for the body silver
like ancient lust,
pure and paranoid –
asking for the head of a spider.
This non-violent resistance
seeks more space to pasteurize
the beautiful milk in gold containers.
A passion flower was going to melt.
poem by Satish Verma
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March
There's a wind blowing
Cold through the corridors,
A ghost-wind,
The flapping of defeated wings,
A hell-fantasy
From meadows damned
To eternal April
And listening, listening
To the wind
I hear
The throat-rattle of dying men,
From whose ears oozes
Foamy blood,
Throttled in a brothel.
I see brightly
In the wind vacancies
Saint Thomas Aquinas
And
Poetry blossoms
Excitingly
As the first flower of truth.
poem by Patrick Kavanagh
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