The Perfume Factory
The poor sooty chimney cleaner who shouts from a top;
' Oh! These trampled flowers cry irksomely
But the inhuman machines never stop the rotation
And crush the soft petals vigorously.
My vigilance is in vain as I am totally helpless
And the proprietor is useless.'
To my poet friend Duncan.Wyllie
* [ Where it goes the human fragrance? ]
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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An old Talisman
This is an ancestral object from my great grandfathers and it goes as inheritance.
They wore for a better fortune but they all lost their wars and the horses died in vain.
These crucial wars never stopped.
Very seldom I used to wear this and hide in the turtleneck.
Yes, a harmless war and I stick to myself.
But it's very hard to control.
Mind looks like a sticking plaster.
This talisman won't reacts for my stillborn yearning
And the both I buried in the isolated garden of old love.
To my poet friend Duncan.Wyllie
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Husband's hurdle
His wife complained to one of his friends.
'Please advise him as he is not strong like young days.
very feeble, doctor said that he is having hyperglycaemia,
hypertension, hyperventilation and et cetera.
fortunately he doesn't catch aids,
but still I have doubts of his negligence and neighbourliness.
I am scared of the 'hydrogen bomb'
who lives in a proximate house
one day there will be an explosion?
to my poet friend Duncan.Wyllie
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The tearful human machines in the unscrupulous capitalist factory
The bourgeoisie weary ordeal human skeletons entangle in the cast iron wheels.
The profiteer squeezes their testicle and ovum.
Crush their Marrow less bones, Wisdom and Courage et cetera.
The output of thousands major products as same as by-products (ammunition) send for the market?
The Non-stop black smoke with soot from the factory's chimney top,
Poor fellows' dreams blow into the helpless sky and pollute;
The pure nature too quiet as an Owl of this cruel Monopoly.
And the stinking Sweatshop seems to be long-lived in this tyranny World.
I dedicate this poem to the humbug Mushroom Organizations that yelp of human rights.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Teen Aged Human...
The sleek bamboo shies away,
The stems of banana weep and cry,
Petals of chosen flowers hide and see,
How elegant you are at your teens, human.
The sun flowers just follow in obedience,
Where ever you go and disobedience,
To the sun is visually noted,
Angry sun looking for another flower,
To replace this infidel yellow flower.
When you walk in the garden,
The freshly bloomed flowers,
Close their petals,
For the fear of being ridiculed,
Just in the presence of,
your natural fragrance.
After Looking at your teeth,
Pearls of the ocean,
May go for a Whitening treat and
they may want to scale off the dirt that formed them.
When the wind meet the lady human at her teens,
It tries to blow as soft as the lady walks
When the moon meets the gentleman human at his teens,
She may show him the whitest face,
On full moon day to be his bride,
On new moon day.
If the sun passes by the lady human at her teens,
he will prostrate in front of her,
to choose him as a flower,
to wear on her plaited hair.
poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Only Monk Keyed
The monk...
He has the key!
Does that make him,
The only monk keyed who sees?
Inspired by:
Mr. Duncan Wyllie
'Hi Duncan,
Thought I would have some fun with your poem,
'He Sees'.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Anguish Thoughts
I saw a flower
Not so fresh, enchanting
It has no sweet smell as roses have.
But it has the thorns of roses.
If I touch a flower
I can tell its soft or rough
But all flowers are soft
Soft petals with sweet fragrance
Make a flower beloved.
But I can’t touch this flower
For it is dangerous.
But worms found its bed
And going to destroy my little flower.
Can this secret love
Destroy her crimson petals?
poem by Abdul Hakeem Parannur
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Not One to Produce Something Because of Its Ease
I perceive writing as a craft.
I approach it that way.
I am not 'all knowing'...
But I do desire to be the best at what I do.
If what I share doesn't mean anything to me...
Why would I go through the trouble of composing it to share?
I am in a relationship.
And I want it to be a successful one.
It takes work.
And I am not one to produce something because of its ease.
Everything I do has meaning and purpose.
There is something about taking one's life seriously,
That ultimately makes the difference.
I would think.
Inspired By:
Mr. Duncan Wyllie
United Kingdom
'Duncan, you are 'something else'. I'm glad we are friends.
You are brilliant. One of the greats! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Roses...!
Flowers you send
bring joy and warmth
roses from your garden
is all that i want
soft petals unfold
your songs so dear
you are not miles away
in the fragrance near
oceans cannot
do us apart
as love blossoms
in our heart....
poem by Dr Madhavi Grace
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The Tragedy of Being Human
I'm human,
I cry a lot,
I think a lot,
Because the answers,
Come in spurts, if ever,
Or Never.
I'm human,
And I want to know why,
People have to die,
Or be killed?
No crime committed,
As if they were a helpless Fly,
I cry.
I'm human,
And I wonder why
We Love?
And look towards the sky,
Trying to understand,
Passion, commitment and pain,
The loved and the unloved,
The sane and the insane,
Explain?
I'm human,
But what hurts the most,
Is to hear men boast,
Of their dictatorial powers,
Built on despicable,
Babel Towers,
A real catastrophe,
Not for me.
And finally,
I'm tired of being Human,
And seeing how Inhuman,
Man towards Man can be,
I quit being human,
I'm free....
poem by Sandra Feldman
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What The Chimney Sang
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed,
And thought of the one she had long since lost,
And said, as her teardrops back she forced,
'I hate the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Children said, as they closer drew,
'`Tis some witch that is cleaving the black night through,
`Tis a fairy trumpet that just then blew,
And we fear the wind in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below,
Said to himself, 'It will surely snow,
And fuel is dear and wages low,
And I`ll stop the leak in the chimney.'
Over the chimney the night-wind sang
And chanted a melody no one knew;
But the Poet listened and smiled, for he
Was Man and Woman and Child, all three,
And said, 'It is God`s own harmony,
This wind we hear in the chimney.'
poem by Francis Bret Harte
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Blood Tears (a pantoum)
The bougainvillea weeps petals on the street,
cobblestones are red with tears.
Much care is needed treading cobblestones
more now that I may murder tears.
Cobblestones are red with tears:
I know not where to put my foot,
more now that I may murder tears.
Would the weeper feel pain?
I know not where to put my foot
for fear of stepping on the petals.
Would the weeper feel pain
were I to crush just one?
For fear of stepping on the petals
I walk home the long way round.
Were I to crush just one,
my heart would weep red too.
I walk home the long way round-
if I crush this crimson carpet
my heart would weep red too,
fallen flowers' blood my own.
If I crush this crimson carpet
much care is needed treading cobbles.
Fallen flowers' blood my own,
the bougainvillea weeps petals on the street.
The blind flower-seller
With the cane basket
and the white cane
She comes to the Sunday market
Sitting on the small bench
She sells different colors of flowers
Though she cannot see
By each fragrance of them
She knows the name and the pedigree too?
And I sniff a rare fragrance while passing
that comes from her hidden little-heart flower?
to my deceased poet friend Paddy Martin!
nimal dunuhinga
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A wild flower's whisper in dark woods
In a moonlit sky stars play hide & seek
and below in the woods a pale colorless flower cries;
' The young they boycotted my birthday party and few Grasshoppers and Dragonflies visited me without an invitation.
These artless vagabonds do not know at least how to suck nectar?
They hurt me violently and scraped my soft poor petals vigorously.
The culprits disappeared like politicians without leaving me a present.
*Count your age by friends-not years
Count your life by smiles-not tears.
-Old saying
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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The forbidden tree grows in serpentine road
It's almost soggy.
Hey! Novice you skid away
And take care my friend.
Ex-Adam had the skill
Though it's a sin.
Anyway who leaves a fruitful tree
without trespassing if it's tasty?
* To my poet friend Duncan.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Every poem
Every poem stands
on its own legs
and although
it displays something
of the poet’s soul,
in reality the poet
stands totally free
from it.
Every word and rhyme
and every verse
is totally independent
from who and what
the poet is
and is nothing more
than a verbal painting
of feelings, life, reflections
or any thing
that the poet wants
to express.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The white lily (Novelinee)
As if constantly caught in a prayer
sprung from the very painful tears of Eve
white petals reach holy into the air
as if in purity it does believe
that it can bring a kind of loveliness,
a type of radiant flowering light,
as it flowers in a kind of eagerness
with a soft fragrance filling the night,
as if being a saintly vessel, it might.
poem by Gert Strydom
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thou Art a Flower
Thou art a flower, dear heart, a fragrant flower
And I, the wandering, hair-clad, amorous bee.
’Mongst all the regal beauties of the bower,
I seek but thee.
I feel the ivory of thy petals fair
Brush lightly on my belly as I woo
And I would sting thee, if I did but dare,
So sweet are you.
I suck the honey from your dewy bowl
And drunken mad, with wild, delirious bliss,
Within your cup, I yield to you my soul
And drink your kiss.
Oh! petals sweet, close in and crush me dead.
I am consumed in flames of passion’s fire.
What else is left, when this dear hour hath fled.
But dead desire?
The juice of poppy flowers and breath of rose,
Wistaria’s purple, blood-flecked lilies white,
I pilfer and when, soft, your petals close,
When comes the night.
I pour the passions of the world of flowers
Deep in beyond the lips of quivering red.
Your life is mine to craze the trembling hours,
All else is dead.
poem by from The Point of View
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bailout My Soul
My soul, is now empty
I know not, what to think
of this demise from, the rich and greedy
Shame on you all, forgettin' the poor and needy
The human spirit will still, soar on through
Although the poor are forgotten
oh my, thats' me and you
It's not that your poor
with your money machines
printing what ceo's need
more of the green
For we are in a worldy mess
never were poor mentioned
as Dylan once spoke
this so called rich American society
is but a joke
poem by Matt Mondschein
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