The Understanding
Four men are the understandings,
Their will is linked by the seasons
And the sea and the moon.
Look in the direction of youth,
And feel like an occupation.
These four men are so obvious,
One can read, one can write
And one can study, the fourth
Can do each, justice is their standing.
For the will of a man is such that
He can never cry, nor can he wonder
Like one who asks and one that works.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Beautiful Occupation
Don't just stand there watching it happening
I can't stand it don't feel it
Something telling me
Don't wanna go out this way
Have a nice day
Read it in the headlines
Watch it on the tv
Put it in the background
Stick it in the back
Stick it in the back
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
Don't need an invitation
To drop in upon a nation
Up to city come
I'm just sittin here
I'm just wastin my time
Half a million civilians gonna die today
They looked the wrong way
Read it in the headlines
Watch it on the tv
Put it in the background
Stick it in the back
Stick it in the back
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
you don't need an invitation
to drop in upon a nation
Don't just stand there watching it happening
I can't stand it dont feel it
Something telling me
Dont wanna go out this way
Have a nice day
Read it in the headlines
Watch it on the tv
Put it in the background
Stick it in the back
Stick it in the back
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
You don't need an invitation
To drop in upon a nation
For the beautiful occupation
The beautiful occupation
So much for an intervention
Don't call the united nations
song performed by by Travis
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mbeki began to write a study of the workings of apartheid policy in the reserves - the areas set aside in law for African occupation - as early as 1959 and 1960.
quote by Ruth First
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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She Is Sleepless, She Is Probing
They read your lines
They perhaps like you
They try to read you
In between
she is sleepless
And she pities you
she is probing
And she writes for you too
And you feel so honored
Comes our arrogance
You say you write
Only for yourself
For art’s sake
You say you cannot
Write for no other
You say you cannot
Stop writing
Your essence is just that
To write for no other
To write or you die
Be kind
Let them read you through the night
Let them follow you
Warn them though
They may have followed
A blind man eking his way through
His darkness
Without even a cane to feel his way.
The Virgin Mary
And Veronica
The crying mother
And the cloth to wipe a bloody face
Don’t stretch further
There is no Christ in me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Standing On The Moon
Standing on the moon
I got no cobweb on my shoe
Standing on the moon
Im feeling so alone and blue
I see the gulf of mexico
As tiny as a tear
The coast of california
Must be somewhere over here - over here
Standing on the moon
I see the battle rage below
Standing on the moon
I see the soldiers come and go
Theres a metal flag beside me
Someone planted long ago
Old glory standing stiffly
Crimson, white and indigo - indigo
I see all of southeast asia
I can see el salvador
I hear the cries of children
And the other songs of war
Its like a mighty melody
That rings down from the sky
Standing here upon the moon
I watch it all roll by - all roll by
Standing on the moon
With nothing else to do
A lovely view of heaven
But Id rather be with you
Standing on the moon
I see a shadow on the sun
Standing on the moon
The stars go fading one by one
I hear a cry of victory
And another of defeat
A scrap of age old lullaby
Down some forgotten street
Standing on the moon
Where talk is cheap and vision true
Standing on the moon
But I would rather be with you
Somewhere in san francisco
On a back porch in july
Just looking up to heaven
At this crescent in the sky
Standing on the moon
With nothing left to do
A lovely view of heaven
But Id rather be with you - be with you
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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On the Innate Drive For What is Right
As life bled, martyrdom flared its buds.
Repression, red from irritation,
Rendered chinks and cracks; but thuds of
Armament - in cowardice - accomplice of the
Dictatorial blight thro' countless years -
Wreaked its retribution:
Yet hope began to bloom a coloured carapace
Enshrining their allegiance ‘gainst the
Terror in their tears.
And on! Splits yawned - breaches in the junta:
Flesh fought fanatical minds -
Bullets welcomed into open hands
And blessed with yearnings for morality:
Chiselled man-toys of death and mutilation
Couldn't repel the might of freedom
Surging at the bright horizon.
Crepuscular rays of purpose, body,
Flooded pandemonium with
Overwhelming clarity, direction -
Burdened clouds drifting wayward as the
Light channelled out a vision,
Intensifying focus on tomorrow -
Deepen their stride
As they home in to
What is theirs,
Rightfully theirs!
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
The reign of justice and freedom
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freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
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freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
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freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
justice justice justice justice justice justice justice justice
freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom freedom
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Mother; it was all a white lie
How do I look? ’ says mother just before she goes out
I reply ‘wow amazing’ mother smiles
But if only she knew it was a white lie
I would hurt her deep inside
Mother says ‘which dress looks better’
I chose red, although I didn’t like neither
Mother reply’s ‘I’m glad you like it ‘, I reply ‘like it? I love it! ’ Yes I lied I genuinely disliked it!
Mother giggles but what she doesn’t realise it’s apart of my game just not as obvious as a riddle.
Mother is on a diet and works so hard to stick to it
Mother asks me ‘have I reduced weight a little bit? ’
I reply ‘a little bit? ’ you’ve lost so much that you’re starting to look like a stick!
Mother giggles and cuddles me; see this is why I lie because I make her feel so valuable and happy!
When mother was pregnant she looked big as ever! Mother asks’ ‘do I look big? ’ I reply look big? Never! Yes I lied to make her feel better!
I wanted her to feel cool about herself just like the breeze in the Lebanese weather
Although she was awfully big, I made her feel light as a feather!
Father is home late; mother is worried, she asks me if I think he’s ok
I reply ‘of course he is’ she smiles and gives me a kiss
Although I was also afraid and wanted to ask mother the same
I kept her calm by putting on a brave face
Mother says ‘I have a surprise for you in the boot’
I opened it and bless mother; she had bought me new shoes,
Mother says ‘like the shoes? ’ I reply ‘of course I do’ but if only she knew,
I would hurt her in the count of two!
poem by Anna Fawaz
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Optometry
If you had not been a poet,
What other field of endeavor...
Would you have chosen to pursue?
'Without a doubt,
It would have been optometry.'
Why that particular field of study?
'It seems as though everyday,
I find myself in a debate with someone...
Over that which is clearly observed.
And,
They deny seeing the obvious.'
Maybe it is not so obvious to them.
'That's why,
Optometry would have been my chosen field of study.'
It's never too late you know.
'It is for a lot of people.
Many will never see the forest for the trees.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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My Education
At school I sometimes read a book,
And learned a lot of lessons;
Some small amount of pains I took,
And showed much acquiescence
In what my masters said, good men!
Yet after all I quite
Forgot the most of it: but then
I learned to write.
At Lincoln's Inn I'd read a brief,
Abstract a title, study
Great paper-piles, beyond belief
Inelegant and muddy:
The whole of these as time went by
I soon forgot: indeed
I tried to: yes: but by and by
I learned to read.
By help of Latin, Greek and Law
I now can write and read too:
Then perish each forgotten saw,
Each fact I do not need too:
But still whichever way I turn
At one sad task I stick:
I fear that I shall never learn
Arithmetic.
poem by James Kenneth Stephen
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Tale of Two Stars
The mind of Sun smiles from the centre
The mind of Moon beams from the corner: they seek
Body to put on the Beam Bang to ensure a universality…
Moon says to Sun “you are hot” And Sun says
To Moon “you are cool”. Sun without quenching glow
Asks: What bores you Moon” Moon replies “a Sun that
Is dull” Sun asks “can a Sun be dull” Moon retorted
Oh, so you don’t have this coverage”
Sun opens instantaneous hotline “sorry, I thought a
Sun radiates on halos like you”. Moon twirls, the toss of
Blondeness touching Sun’s brunette! Then asks Sun “what
Drink would you like” Sun replies, I am a ‘totaller, Orange
Thanks! Thru flagrant osmosis Moon presses keys that
Titillate like “the IQ of zebras will be great on a Mensa…
And Sun lifts his voice and sings an Akan drum
I call gold—gold is mute—I call cloth—
Cloth is mute—It is humankind that matters”
Sun buys Moon glass of her choice boasting warmth
Still they throw topics along osmotic understandings
Then Moon brings out a house of wrapped tobacco
And asks Sun “do you want to stick with one? ”—
Sun replies, “I am a Non-smoker Thanks”. Sun
Watches Moon cover the mirror with…then Moon
Turns suddenly to Sun and asks in an unshakable
Diminuendo—Are you a boring Sun? ”
The DJ releases Marley—the legend wasted no
Time to charge the floor with positive vibrations…
Sun vibrates warm with the One Love Consciousness…
And bubbles of sweats of Sun’s Afro reflect the lights
Extra curvy stars speed grace the shaking floor
The galaxy of curvy stars form an orbit around Sun
Their rotations tantalizingly passionate with Sun
Hastily Moon gather steps and reggae thru the orbits
Her feet dactylology like Adowa dancer catches Sun’s eyes
Then Moon explodes genially on eardrums of Sun
Thought we could see through our multicultural
Osmotic discourses somewhere quiet we two? ”
Sun cogitates on zebra, the Akan drum then glows green
Moon soliloquises with palpable royal splendour: Eureka!
poem by Gabriel Eshun
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Closest Is Always The Most Fun
I like to do this irrational thing
Some spirit of irony beckons me forward
Into this folly and fun, so onward I charge, onward I fling
My heart's words into this inked paper, praying they are ignored
Because the subject I write of is right there
Yep she's right there
Right here
This is when and why I choose to write
Because she is right there
So I write, I like to write as she watches
In complete ignorance; or that's the idea
Maybe she does know, but probably not
No one can read my handwriting, no one can read my thought
She won't see through the metaphor
How could she know it's her, she'd never it is her who it's all for
I play this fun game of risk and love
Throw my inhibition and write when she's on my right
Haha, I can write whatever I want and no one
Will eve know, surely I have won
Surely they will not see it's about them
I even tell them I am writing
I even allude to what I am writing
So roll the dice, pick a card, buy a stock
Let's take the risk
I'll do it and you'll never know
Irony calls to me to make it more and more
Obvious, you don't even notice me
I dare you to notice this
I dare you.
poem by David Knox
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On one hand, to be able to go from one direction in the sky to study such an object to another direction to study another object, and on the other hand to be able to maintain accurately the position in space.
quote by Claude Nicollier
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Aaron
My works are spirit so,
Read them very slowly to feel my presence;
But do ask always at Abel to get your answers.
I am Aaron from Africa and,
That which was dead is now alive!
And this poem will wake you up from your bed.
You know my love and works and,
I know your love and your care;
But this poem is like your streamline body!
And it will touch the sweet of your body as well.
My works are spirit so,
Read them very slowly to feel my presence;
For you are the one that i have chosen among the lot!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Victim Of Bad Journalism
One morning he comes to you
Introducing himself as the journalist from the city
And he comes to interview you about this little conflict
About you and the mayor of this town
What can you tell him, except the truth
In good faith you say you do not want to be popular
And be likable by the mayor’s taste like you do not want
To be his stamp pad maintaining your independent stand
On the issue of life and death of his enemies
On the issue of you as the pillar of justice and the mayor
As another pillar of his own, vis-à-vis the people’s will
The voice of this miniature democratic society
He jots down every word that you say as he asks
More questions which you answer with all candid honesty
Like you have been this judge for the past 12 years
And the mayor simply dislikes your being passive
To his programs for justice (in his subtle way
Of telling you what really pleases him)
You tell you live in peace, in independence
Free from any dictates, except your conscience
Tomorrow morning the paper headlines read
“Town Judge calls Mayor a Stamp Pad! ”
Your wife asks you what is this all about?
And you are silent; you sip your coffee carefully
You read the paper again, you breathe some more
You are silent than ever, you ponder some more
These powerful people around you do not deserve the
Dignity of your answer and you do not want to see the face
Of that journalist again; He successfully made you feel
That in this town, honesty can be very serious offense.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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When I Write
when i write i do not wish to please
anybody
it is more of a selfish endeavor
i am lonely and i want to please myself
to get rid of this feeling
so i can function well
in this society
when i write i am engaged in therapy
looking for a cure
of this sickness of humanity
this void inside our hearts
something that asks
always asks
and we are left without any answers
but we go on
because we have no choice
the world spins itself
even without us
this search for meaning
this self wanting to be full
i write because there is this sickness upon ourselves
it is lovely
beautiful and true
feel it, to every syllable, every letter
every poem
at night when the loneliness becomes deeper
when the stars become too far away
when the silence stabs
when the pain becomes too unbearable
the mind opens
the words build themselves
like stairs, and
this is it now... another poem.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Song About The Moon
If you want to write a song about the moon
Walk along the craters of the afternoon
When the shadows are deep
And the light is alien
And gravity leaps like a knife off the pavement
And you want to write a song about the moon
You want to write a spiritual tune
Then nah nah nah
Presto
Song about about the moon
If you want to write a song about the heart
Think about the moon before you start
Because the heart will howl
Like a dog in the moonlight
And the heart can explode
Like a pistol on a june night
So if you want to write a song about the heart
And its ever-longing for a counterpart
Write a song about the moon
The laughing boy
He laughed so hard
He fell down from his place
The laughing girl
She laughed so hard
The tears rolled down her face
Hey songwriter
If you want to write a song about
A face
Think about a photograph
That you really cant remember
But you cant erase
Wash your hands in dreams and lightning
Cut off your hair
And whatever is frightening
If you want to write a song
About a face
If you want to write a song about
The human race
Write a song about the moon
If you want to write a song about the moon
You want to write a spiritual tune
Then do it
Write a song about the moon
song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wing Pages Of The Butterfly
at the nursery
while people
are at purchase
and at transactions
a blue butterfly
comes by
and opens its pages to me
swift and quick
and it says to me:
'Read! Read!
Read my pages! '
'I can’t read, '
I say,
amused
at this brash butterfly
'Read and write!
Read and write
about me,
and all flitting butterflies
Read
and write, you silly! '
it commands
And so I read
and I copy
and these are the words
the words from those
pages
the butterfly
holds up to me
poem by Raj Arumugam
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~ O' Poetry I Read I Write ~
~ O' POETRY I READ I WRITE ~
Ms. Nivedita
UK
29 December,2009.
Poetry ~
I read I read I read
Without asking,
Knowing why?
Poetry ~
I write I write I write
Without asking,
Knowing why?
O' Poetry ~
Read n’ write
To share
Dare n’ bare,
Don’t care
Love to dye
By
Hi and fie.
.
O' Poetry ~
Life I buy
Never sell bye bye
All I’ll do until I die
Lo! I’m no hi-fi.
----
Copyright reserved by the author
poem by Ms. Nivedita Bagchi Spc. Uk.
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Choose the work for worthy time
The work, linked with profit is not boring.
The work, linked with reward is interesting.
The work, linked with the ego is untiring.
The work, linked with love is inspiring
The work linked with sex is tempting
Other than these, what work you do
amounts to the waste of life.
23.03.2001, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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A Love To Read
Is it a misconception,
That writers read...
Other writers' works?
Or reads extensively at all?
Afterall...
When would a true writer,
Find time to get that done...
If one has a love to read?
And...
I am not that one to say,
A reading AND a writing done...
Is an impossibility.
Because I read what I write often.
Regularly and on a daily basis.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Need to Write
I need to write a poem, but how shall I do it,
First of all shall I write standing up, or just sit;
Until I get comfortable, I won't be able to start,
All the words will be muddled up, and then it'll fall. Apart.
Now! I got it right, I will choose the title to write about,
No good getting frustrated, or even sit or pout;
Just need to relax, and then the words will come easy,
Cause if I try to hard, Then my stomach will feel queasy.
I know what sort of holiday would people like,
And as I start the poem, the hall clock did strike;
Oh! It is now is what I can do, write about the time passing,
And so I have the heading, the thoughts on paper lasting.
It's got colour, size, And description, and the taste of art,
It's come from my mind, emotions, and also from the heart;
It has vision, and thoughts about where I want to go,
Yes! I think it'll get some to agree, to me they'll show.
So if you have a problem to write a poem or story,
Just read this poem, as a help, it's a help from me;
Don't force the idea, or rush it through at all,
Just go have a cuppa, read an article or a friend call.
Eventually it'll come, the words will flow along,
You might even end up, turning it into a song;
Writing poems will be rewarding, just give a go,
And you might enjoy it, they may end up in a show.
poem by Margaret Haig
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