Ghost Revisited
No soul is my property other than the one,
No tremors awake the dead when there is life;
My ministry is of the living, and the ghosts are absent,
They work in ways to be known and ways to master.
No godly being is a man, and no holy man contrives ruination
On the ghost or the ghoul that mattered to its hunter,
The very same can be said of the frail master and mistress
Who spend freely over themselves like bosses and ladies.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The Ghoul Ghost
The ghoul ghost
That hold the host
And also hurt in hut
Flash in flat.
The ghoul ghost
work in wrong part
And damage the right.
Behold!
The ghoul ghost is in part
And also in the west
Of your sight
work as a magnet.
poem by Ejalonibu Abraham
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Lord of the Flies
Oh Master my Master
Oh where have you been
I wallowed in filth and
I drowned in sin
Oh Master my Master
It's my rotten luck
To swim in the decay
And swallow the muck
Oh Master my Master
I stand in the fires
Surrounded by murderers
Thieves, cheaters, and liars
Oh Master my Master
the earth has turned red
Fluid with blood
Of the recently dead
Oh Master my Master
What's wrong with the world
The blackness unfolds
Like a flag that's unfurled
Oh Master my Master
You ignore my cries
And now I'm quite sure
You're the Lord of the Flies
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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Minus into minus
The chambermaid, as usual, made ready
The bedroom for her mistress and master
When the master’s eyes fell upon her shoulders,
That the mistress took note of the least.
Without any fuss, saw the mistress
The master lay his hand upon the shoulder
Of the maid. No rage, no jealousy.
She, the straying, rather felt relieved.
07.02.2003
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Hunted One
You are supposed to hunt the right fellow,
As of now mister!
You can live morals suited to the kingly few,
And the pious ones, master!
Your habits are cleaner than several,
Bad are those that are dirty, but you are not my master
If you are dirty!
Righteous work cleans the soul, the friendship,
And the unions that hurt in special ways.
poem by Naveed Akram
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A sterling faith
I am not worried about my future,
Why should I?
The Master of yesterday
Is the Master of today,
And will be the Master of tomorrow,
I have planned nothing for my future,
No insurance, no fix deposit, and no cash,
Why should I?
When life has no guarantee,
This guarantee is nothing
But a diversion from the ways of God,
He will remember us if we remember
Him through thick and thin,
We forget Him so He forgets us,
And leaves us at the mercy of wordly means,
If He is our master and planner of our life,
Who are we to step in His jurisdiction,
And impose our so called judgement on us.
poem by Mohammad Akmal Nazir
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“Ghosts are for the telling”
Ghosts are for the telling,
We call them experts and impressive,
As more of them appear from the woods.
Ghosts have understood us for the rules,
So that mastering is a problem and real;
Our mothers want us to comply and so they result.
Each ghost is great in beauty,
Full of foolish whims and ideas,
Their wish is to comprehend us, even to master us.
A little ghost is no liar, but one of them,
And that degree is hidden,
For we strive to alienate it as much as we can.
The baby is asleep, the ghosts do weep,
And I am fast away in slumber;
Much are ghosts to do the enormous chatter before they die.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sonnet: Boss’ Day (Oct.16)
Some bosses do not know what fairness is!
Some bosses want to be corrupt in life;
Some bosses work endlessly without bliss;
Some bosses cut their employees like knife!
Some bosses do not want to be honest;
Some bosses talk but do opposite things;
Some bosses do not want workers to rest;
Some bosses live a lazy life like kings!
Good bosses are good administrators;
Good bosses think of employees’ welfare;
Good bosses are not liars / orators;
Good bosses serve their employees and share.
What sort of boss do you prefer to be?
A boss must live a life exemplary!
Dedicated to all bosses world-o'er
Copyright by Dr John Celes 9-22-2007
poem by John Celes
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Work Without Pay [mizz.copper]
Hammer closed the sale that day.
Your sweat man-profit of ways.
Work in the field, sun is hot.
Water boy, fast or maybe not.
Master wants more work today.
You have no real say.
What is the time of morn.
Sun down-fullmoon- work long.
Cant ever stop this pace.
Thought I was part of the human race.
More ships are comming ashore.
Work without pay-open door.
Man has found many ways.
Pet dogs and bones of may.
[GOOGLE: search, POEWHIT]
poem by Joe Poewhit
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The War of the Ghosts
Three Ghosts that haunt me have I,
Three Ghosts in my soul that fight,
Three grandsire Ghosts in my soul,
That haunt me by day and by night.
The first was a dark mountaineer,
Who hunted with arrow and knife,
To whom the turf was a bed,
And the wind of the moorland was life.
And the next was a mariner rude,
Whose home and whose grave was the sea,
For whom the land was a prison
And only the ocean was free.
And the last was a shrunken recluse,
Who lived with the dust and the gloom
And wrote of the Saints and of Him
Who went for us to His doom.
And all through the days and years
These ancient Ghosts contend,
And my soul is a battle-field
Of passions that pierce and rend.
And whenever a sunbeam alights
All gleaming and fresh on my page,
I am wild for the hills and the bush,
I am torn with the hunter's rage.
I am sick of the smell of a book,
I am off with the dogs or a gun,
Or I gallop my fifty miles
Before the set of the sun.
And yet from some loftier peak
When I look on the sea from afar,
I feel like one in a grave;
And I long for a ship full-sailed
And an ocean wide on the lee
I choke on the solid land
For the lift of the undulant sea.
Yet ever the battle goes on,
And ever there rises a day
When the Ghosts of the wave and the wood
To the Ghost of the cell give way.
Then the land is a wilderness drear,
And dismal and vast is the sea,
But cloistered in peace with my books
My soul is uplifted and free.
Three Ghosts that haunt me have I,
Three Ghosts in my soul that fight,
Three grandsire Ghosts in my soul,
That haunt me by day and by night.
Yet ofttimes there joins in the fray
One gross and sluggish of limb,
No spectre is he but a man,
Whose strokes are heavy and grim.
For a man is not nothing, I swear,
Nor a braggart am I when I boast
That though he be slothful or sleep,
A man is more than a ghost.
And my soul is my own, I aver,
The master and lord of it I,
And whenever I will to bestir,
All ghostly usurpers shall fly.
Then I what is mine will assume,
Nor diverge from the path of my will.
Though the Ghosts I have routed still call
From the desk and the sea and the hill.
poem by William Gay
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In Your Own Ways
You are smart in your own ways
you are lovely in your own ways
you are beautiful in your own ways
You smile in your own ways
So crazy in your own ways
The madness of your own ways
such mysterious in your own ways
Those eyes of your own ways
You inspire me in your own ways
You talk in you own ways
you love me in your own ways
You suprise me in your own ways
Your kindness of its own kind
Your love of its own loveliness
your touch of its own comfort
And your kisses of its own sweetness
There is nothing so much worth to
treasure in my own ways than the
sweet memories of your own ways
Your life in your own ways
changes mine in its own way
God must have taken His own time
for sush a creation of its own kind
With everything in its own way
I must live your way.
poem by Moffat Mbuzi
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Ghoul Care
Sour fiend, go home and tell the Pit
For once you met your master, -
A man who carried in his soul
Three charms against disaster,
The Devil and disaster.
Away, away, and tell the tale
And start your whelps a-whining,
Say 'In the greenwood of his soul
A lizard's eye was shining,
A little eye kept shining.'
Away, away, and salve your sores,
And set your hags a-groaning,
Say 'In the greenwood of his soul
A drowsy bee was droning,
A dreamy bee was droning.'
Prodigious Bat! Go start the walls
Of Hell with horror ringing.
Say 'In the greenwood of his soul
There was a goldfinch singing,
A pretty goldfinch singing.'
And then come back, come, if you please,
A fiercer ghoul and ghaster,
With all the glooms and smuts of Hell
Behind you, I'm you master!
You know I'm still your master.
poem by Ralph Hodgson
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The Master
Tom johnston
Just dont know why I keep on tryin
Must be a better way out
I hope I find it soon
Every night, I just cant keep from cryin
Even my old dog
Keeps howlin at the moon
Even my old dog
Keeps howlin at the moon
Even the sun, it just a keep on shinin
Pollyanna days when I was a child and on my own
Even the tracks, they just a keep on linin
I believe my master is just about to bring me home
I believe my master is just about to bring me home
Oh, but bless the days and the many different ways
People try to love one another
And wont you bless the times and the holy light that shine
Our cross has been brought asunder
Even the sun, it just a keep on shinin
Pollyanna days when I was a child and on my own
Even the tracks, they just a keep on linin
I believe my master is just about to bring me home
I believe my master is just about to bring me home
I believe my master is just about to bring me home
song performed by by Doobie Brothers
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Great Master Poet Wrote
A great master poet told
how nature interceded
and interrupted a architect’s design
and made it’s own adjustments in time
but that the master designing artist’s eye,
his mind, comprehended
the difference and from it found
a brilliant answer to where
the problems were
and yet a man of the book
took it upon himself
to declare the designers work
as a copy of strokes
made by the hand of God
which lead to the ruination
of that master architect.
Now if we follow this argument
every poem, even every thought,
every painting
about nature’s splendour
or even the beauty of the human being
or whatever,
you could connect to God or His creation,
even when we sing words, paint pictures
and create art
it does not belong to the author
but to the Lord God and his church.
l’Envoi
If you take the artist away
from designs, verses, paintings, music
(from whatever art)
it will not be there
and it will not exist,
which leaves me to conclude
that some men of the holy book
do claim in the name of the divine
that which does not belong to them
or their church.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Place Of God
In this place of godly work
I play, as if tomorrow reclines
And approaches me, listening always
For the cure and prosody.
My living eternally and externally
Combines the worlds of words
And contrives happiness for all,
Through indignant worry,
And throughout history,
For it wends its way to everlasting grace.
This place is holy, one of the holiest,
And my majestic endeavour applies,
For the sins are made overnight
And lists of helpers work and play.
poem by Naveed Akram
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The World is Earth
I have godly work to involve with the world,
The world is Earth, the master so supreme when unfurled.
The master of science is seeing a light on the end of the Earth,
The end of the Earth is near, so near, and so dear that we are in birth.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sonnet: Master-servant Relationship
Where Master cares for servant’s welfare too
And treats him like a fellow-man at least,
And twain help each other to grow and woo,
The Master can never become a beast.
Where servant earns his master’s goodwill first,
By doing duty, uttering no word,
The Master cannot ever turn his worst,
Nor any time from hilt remove his sword!
Thus, master, servant is inseparable;
One thinks about the other all the time;
And love is born strong like in a fable,
With other’s help, each makes his life sublime.
Think of the other’s needs much more than self,
And never work for worldly acclaim/pelf.
7-26-2002
poem by John Celes
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The Master Spoke.
Why is the world here today?
The Master Spoke.
Why are we sinners, like sheep gone astray?
The Master Spoke.
Why all this toil, no comfort of Eden,
Since man didn't obey?
The Master Spoke.
Why work the dust of the ground, from whence we came,
And eat 'By the sweat of our brow? '
The Master Spoke.
Why do we, naturally,
Posess the desire to before,
God, want to worship and adore?
The Master Spoke.
Why is Jesus glorified,
And why, for sinners, did he die?
The Master Spoke.
Why shall God return again,
To take away Isreal, His bride?
Why me, a sinner, justified?
The Master Spoke.
Why will there be Revelations, wars,
And roomers of wars,
Nearing the End Times?
The Master Spoke.
Why is God an eternal Being,
But the world shall be no more?
The Master Spoke.
Why is it, that when a man speaks,
His words blow away
As kernals of grain,
And yet, when God speaks, his Word is as rock,
Forever to remain?
The Master Spoke -
'Heaven and Earth shall pass away,
But my words shall never pass away.'
Why do these things occur,
And as it were,
The penalty of sin man did not have to pay?
The Master Spoke -
'For God so loved the world,
That he gave his only Son,
That whoever believes in him
Shall not perish,
But have the gift of eternal life.
Why?
The Master Spoke.
'Go now! Help the needy,
And the weak!
Save hearts that are broken! '
Hurry, now!
The Master has Spoken.
poem by Macy Dvirnak
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The Hunter's Mind
Awake, awake!
Awake to the morning bowl from last night's food;
Like the fling of a stone that puts the stars into flight.
What has the hunter in the hand?
Awake to the games of the Sultans,
Where the morning glory do call for the hunter;
Awake, awake!
Awake to the facts of life;
Cos', the hunter's gun is ready for action.
Oh no! ! The hunter's eye has caught the Sultans turret,
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call;
Who can satisfy the Sultans?
Like a little pool, so is the hunter's mind;
The hunter's gun is ready for action.
The only man who makes no mistake is,
The man who never does anything;
Awake, awake!
The Sultans turret is in trouble;
Like the noose of light to awake nature's call.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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My Lord, You Build Your Own Shrine!
My Lord you art soul of all scriptures,
They sing thy glory,
Thy shine is in every heart,
Thou art my Self and Self of all,
Thine ways are wonderful,
O master, master craftsman,
You are Crafting my person,
Taking utmost care a craftsman can take,
Or cutting bad or weakness and grafting the best and strength!
Obstacles and obstructions,
What I think are the process you take me,
Heating, melting cutting and polishing,
Just to reshape to your purpose and requirement,
You take care to bring out
the best in me,
Thine ways are as good,
Knowing my quality and strength,
the stuff that I am madeof,
Thee know well than me!
You know well, how to shape me,
The one who won himself is
awfully obedient kid,
That I should be in thy hands!
Thine are ways to pass me through horror,
Make me more brave and intelligent,
You embedded wisdom and knowledge,
With wit,
gentleness studded in ideal way,
Everyone would love and like!
One who passes through thine processes,
He is hidden treasure,
treasure in heart where your light shine!
only some can find,
Thy hands Everywhere,
Thy glory sung in books,
Scriptures say more in more ways,
But the master you crafted
is master of self,
Not yet any words can describe
him,
Only able hearts can feel him,
Only loving hearts can love him,
Love of such Soul is love of you,
Where you built your own shrine,
Beyond words your glory shine!
Obstacles and obstructions,
prove either what one is,
How sharp one should be,
and how brave one is!
How hard diamond can be
shaped and polished, Thee know well,
materials may be,
granite, or
gold or may be iron are alloys
shaped and sized!
Lord,
I never pray to give me a clean path,
Lead me through tough terrain,
Give me the strength to face and
come out successfully though fire,
or the spinning wheel of time, being master of my own!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Money talks!
Money talks
Put it to work
Watch your world spin & rock
Money talks
But when it fucks with you
Money sucks
Without money, we are in poverty
With money, you are my property
If you are very ugly, don’t worry
There is expensive plastic surgery
If you are one who is totally boring
Spend, spend, spend and stop worrying
Who says money can't buy you love
Who says money can't buy you friends
Who says money can't buy you fame
We all live and die the money game
Money talks
Hit the jackpot
Watch the media flock
Paparazzis, children, grown-ups
Chasing you from block to block
The previous known vagabond
People now no longer mock
You ceased being a laughing stock
Now they want a share of your buck
Ignoring money talk, is not that simple
Many have thrown away their principles
Listening to money talk
It is the master of love & hate
It is the master of a smile & a frown
It is the master of respect & disrespect
It’s the difference between a good & a bad friend
Money talks
If you listen to it
You become its slave
The only path it paves
Waits silently to crush you
With an evil gigantic wave
2006 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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