Moo
I hear a sad cry of a cow from a slaughterhouse.
That echoes and accompanies in my sojourn.
Wherever I go I hear that sad melody.
In Seagull’s shriek and the ferocious waves of the sea,
A child’s cry in the cradle for milk when mother delays the feeding.
A man’s cry when in hungry and a bullet pierce in the battlefield.
The whole life is a shout expressing emotion,
That resembles the poor cow’s moo in the slaughterhouse.
I dedicate this poem to my silent hidden friend Denis. Joe
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Peach Grove Next To Abbatoir
Next to an abbatoir
grows a peach grove.
The former has screams.
The latter is silent.
The slaughterhouse
stinks of blood and urine
and solid waste.
The peach grove is fragrant.
The slaughterhouse yields
a maximum 1000 pounds an acre of
food.
The peach grove yields in
trilevel agriculture four hundred
fifty thousand pounds an acre.
The slaughterhouse is labor
intensive and causes many worker
injuries and deaths.
The peach tree requires nothing
but a seed beneath dirt. The sun
and rain and mother earth
do the rest.
The slaughterhouse food causes
cancer, heart disease, food
poisoning, kidney failure, arthritis,
food poisoning fatalities.
The peach grove is God-designed.
poem by Saiom Shriver
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To My Dearest Mother
For the love of unforgoting times.
For the pains of sleepless night.
For those little words that gave me life.
For all the chancy moment you stand firm.
To you my dearest mother
i dedicate this poem.
O my mother
you are to me rare entity.
My only one who need no
touch of glamour.
Beautiful you are in all forms.
You're in itself a poem too
wonderful for words.
O mother
You who press me to her
bossom feeding me with love and pity.
You who held me up when
i fall and cheer me up when i stand.
To you my dearest mother,
i dedicate these poem.
poem by Enebeli Ifyprada
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Coconut Miracle
A coconut bobbed upon the waves
and alighted softly on the sands
of the shore. Years later there
were many coconut palms on the
island. They provided milk for babies,
nut fiber for others, oil for lamps,
coconut shells for dishes, lauric
acid for meditation. Lifegiving
little lakes of milk unstolen from
an animal protected by a hard shell
as transform into heaven
slaughterhouse hells.
poem by O. Anna Niemus
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Tommrow world
Today
Mother's
Not feeding
For child...
With the beauty..
Milk was given
The child...
Spoil the beauty...
Some body lie..
Emmaging too;
Not feeding
Mother's for
The child...
World bigest
Rong for;
Tommrow world..! ! .
OH!
Mother's please
Feed your milk
For the child...
poem by Otteri Selvakumar
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Handsome
To think that the adult lion
Was once a tiny thing.
So his mother kept her eye on
This one who would be king.
She knew that he was full of life,
Vivacious, full of fun!
Yet he must learn to conquer strife
And fight until he's won.
No easy street, no gentle road,
No straight smooth path ahead...
For him, there was a higher code,
Just like a thoroughbred...
Each day would be a battlefield,
Pretenders for his throne,
Contenders waiting still concealed
Until they are full grown...
For now he was a handsome beast
With tiny hidden scars...
Aware that others never ceased,
He dare not let them pass...
He met each challenge with a sneer
And then a grisly growl...
Yet knowing he would win and jeer
And hear his loser howl...
It's Nature's way... it's raw, it's wild,
It's life and death, my friend...
No place for those so meek, so mild,
With no thought to defend...
This handsome lion knows his worth,
His offspring know it, too...
His mother knew it from his birth...
A winner through and through!
The poem is based on the magnificent painting
by Stephen Gayford called 'Handsome'.
More Stephen Gayford poems here:
denis-martindale-dot-blogspot-dot-com
poem by Denis Martindale
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Warmth, not wealth, feeds
A mother in penury has her child
Suckles her breast and slumber on her lap.
A mother in luxury buys her child
A feeding bottle and a silver cradle.
The child of the poor is rich in warmth,
Though with no silver spoon in its mouth.
17.09.2000, Pmdi
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Poor Hairless Dog
From the slaughterhouse
A fat butcher shooed away
A poor hairless dog
poem by Asif Andalib
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Poem Under the Pillow~
The Poem Under Pillow
It was last year..
Oo maybe this year
Poem written to hear
The poem very dear
Left under the pillow
Left to alone to bear
Far away from our hear
No one could get too near
This poem was hidden clearly
Hidden from the eyes...
Hidden by the poet because of fear
Hidden from the worlds' ears
Oo what a poem my dears
This poem is still under the...
Song: XI
Mother, mother, do you not hear?
Mother, they come; there is news to tell!
– Give me your hands, my daughter dear:
'Tis but a ship that saileth well.
Mother dear, have a care, give heed!
–They go, my daughter, away they speed.
Mother, the danger is sore, alas!
– Child, my child, it will quickly pass.
Mother, mother, She draweth near!
– It is down in the harbour, daughter dear.
Mother, mother, She opens the door!
– Child, they go, to return no more.
Mother, She enters! I am afraid!
– Child, they now have the anchor weighed.
Mother, I hear Her speaking low.
– Child, my child, it is they that go.
Mother, She makes the stars go dark!
– Child, 'tis the sails of a shadowy bark.
Mother, She knocks at the casement still!
– Child, maybe it is fastened ill. . . .
Mother, mother, my sight grows dim. . . .
– Child, they sail for the open sea.
On every hand I can hear but Him. . . .
– O child, what is it, and who is He?
poem by Maurice Polydore-Marie-Bernard Maeterlinck
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Hidden Voices in the Dark
I hear whispers in the murky corners.
I hear echoes coming out of the shadows.
I hear screams screeching through the dim black.
The hidden voices in the dark.
A son is whispering accept me even if I am gay.
A daughter echo of daddy please doesn’t touch me there.
And a mother screams I did not know.
They are some of the hidden voices in the dark.
In the silence of the night
when all is somber.
That is when my mind’s ear
is tune in to all
The Hidden Voices in the Dark
You know what I say to people when I hear they're writing an anti-war book? I say, "why don't you write an anti-glacier book instead?" What he meant, of course, was that there would always be wars, that they were as easy to stop as glaciers. I believe that, too.
Kurt Vonnegut in Slaughterhouse-Five
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Across The Battlefield
Hear the cannons roar
across the battlefield
with its pits of pain
where the dead and dying lay.
In the no man’s land
that separates friend from foe.
Hear the mournful sounds
of weeping flesh
entangled within the baptism of death.
Across the battlefield
where there are fleeting ghosts
of those who fell on another day.
One day the guns may fall silent
and flowers will once again dance
with an evening breeze.
Instead of the blood of innocence
milking the no man’s ground.
Birds may again sing one day
replacing the agony of young men
dying before their time.
In twenty, fifty or a hundred years
they will be remembered
for the sacrifice they gave,
condemning themselves to an early grave.
Maybe when that day comes
no more cannons will again roar
across the battlefield
with its pits of pain.
19 May 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Music Is Gone
THE MUSIC IS GONE
The music is gone-
What is a poem without its own music?
There is no melody in me.
I hear these flat words form on the flat page.
There are no dimensions to me
I hear no singing as I write.
This poem is words with little feeling
A flat poor poem written by an old man
Who this morning
has not yet truly woken up.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Song of the Narrow Road
His melancholy song began exceeding its limits.
In those days he used to sing the same old song:
'Why these ears, hey! If they do not hear? '
Old man is crying for help.
It's useless if they are annoying?
Only this shadowless precarious man who accompanies him
Until his last breath.
Oh! This melancholy song exceeds its limits.
I dedicate this poem to Sandra & Dave in gratitude.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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An interview for Hangman
'Yes, your qualifications are more than enough,
But you have skipped purposely the mandatory question.
What is your religion? '
He said; 'Humanism'
'There is no religion called on such 'ism'.
'Yes, it's everywhere but nobody aware.'
'Sorry Mr.So & So and we cannot offer you the job unless you fill one of the religions.'
'Then you write down, favoritism Sir.
And I have a dilemma perhaps you may have an answer in your heavy books.
When a person dies if he requests the life once again? '
* I dedicate this poem to my friend the silent songster Denis Joe.
[You conjure a poignant observation of hypocrisy and prejudice which is present in any ism. I especially enjoyed the line of questioning 'ism 'and the arrival of favoritism which is the prevalent ingredient of predominance. History and religion is written and exercised by the victors. You my perspicuous friend are truly a Sage. Your friend, George]
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Like so many Americans, she was trying to construct a life that made sense from things she found in gift shops.
Kurt Vonnegut in Slaughterhouse-Five
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once Full of Life
Hear her heart beat
Hear her heart thump
Hear her silent thoughts
Hear her silent tears
How she’s been sad for years
Hear her heart crack
Hear her heart cry
Hear her heart once full of life
Hear her beatless heart, shriveled, dark and dry.
Hear her heartbeat-slowly die
poem by Dani SCREAMS
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An unpleasant incident
Two days ago we found
a cat has delivered her two
new born kittens on the cement floor
in our building.
The day was very cold
and a friend of mine
made a card-board box
for them to secure.
Today I saw the worst and unpleasant thing
in my life.
My own eyes couldn't believe
This ferocious mother cat was breast feeding one
and the other was half eaten,
only two legs and the small tail remained
Oh! what a catastrophe is this?
I thought a blind is fortunate than me.
Luckily my poor mother who was gone earlier
without seeing such a heartbreak.
The buddha must have seen a similar incident.
That's why he was frustrated
and left everything for a perfect bliss?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Shooter and the clay pigeon
The young marksman who is in the services deprives her as a slave.
His love seems to her like military orders.
But how can she salute him in despair?
He is not the right partner though he is well polished.
Let him choose a quarrelsome lass and search for a polite soldier who really fights with life.
*I dedicate this poem to my brother soldiers who are in the meaningless battlefield on this precious Christmas day.
The Lord Jesus preached about brotherhood against the battlefield?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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