Conversation with God
One day while I was dreaming I heard a soft like voice
It called me to a pond
and asked to recite
the stories of my childhood
I thought it very strange
Then with deafening noise it came
It took me to the pond and asked me 'what I could see'
'I see me' I replied
'Very good' it said
'Now do you see' it asked
'I see a little child with hair as bright as fire'
'Who is that child' it asked
'It is me' I replied again
'Do you remember what that child was like'
'No' I replied
'Until you become a child again you'll see no more'
'I do not understand' I said
'You will' came the voice
'When' I asked
'When you believe that I am real'
'But you are real' I answered
'Only one who truly believes can understand'
poem by Rachel Branscombe
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Related quotes
Experience Is God
I asked, ‘What comes with birth? '
Born and see, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is said to be education? '
Study and see God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is knowledge? '
Know and see God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is kindness? '
Be kind and shower, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is love? '
Share with others, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What pleasure do you get from wife? '
Marry and experience, God ordered!
I asked, ‘Who is child to you? '
Get a child for you, God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is old age? '
Become old and observe God ordered!
I asked, ‘What is poverty? '
Toil and see God ordered!
I asked, ‘What happens after death? '
Die and see God ordered!
If anyone wants to know what is life,
And he has to experience and know,
Then why are you, GOD?
GOD said, ‘O' poor man,
The experience itself is ME!
poem by V.K. Kanniappan
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Sunflowers After Sex.
After the sex she stood
In front of the Van Gogh
Painting and gazed. Never
Saw that last night, she said.
It was dark, Max replied.
She touched the painting
With her fingers. Why have
A painting of flowers when
You can go out and buy some?
She asked. They last longer this
Way, he replied. So did you
Paint this? She asked in a state
Of semi undress, her eyes sleepy,
Her hair in a mess. No, Van Gogh
Did, he replied. Is he a friend of
Yours? She asked rubbing her breasts.
He sighed and shook his head. No,
Van Gogh painted that many years
Ago, now he’s dead. It’s a bit yellow,
She said, looking at the painting
Closer, what are those yellow flowers
Supposed to be? Sunflowers, he said,
They’re big flowers; people grow them
For real. She raised her eyebrows and
Pulled a face. What about that drink?
She asked. Sure, Max replied pouring
Her gin in a tall glass. She took, sipped
And winked an eye. What about more
Sex? She sighed. Sure, Max, looking at
Van Gogh’s Sunflowers, boringly replied.
poem by Terry Collett
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The Little Chimney Sweep - Victorian Times
What is above all these chimneys, I asked the young lad,
The chimney sweep boy replied,
Why Sir, it's the sky which is sometimes so blue,
That when I look up and glance at the view,
Such glory cannot be denied.
What lies in that sky then, I asked the young lad,
The boy gazing up now replied,
Oh Sir, clouds and sunshine, at night moon and stars,
Planets like Jupiter, Saturn and Mars,
What wonders out there can be spied?
Is your work very unbearable, I asked the young lad,
Most times Sir, it is, he replied,
From dawn until dusk, I'm climbing to sweep,
The soot from the chimneys, for my food and my keep,
My Master cannot be defied.
Do you 'welcome' the sky, I asked the young lad,
When I'm climbing, I do, he replied,
It's my friend when it's dark and the way up is hard,
Because sometimes I get burn't and then badly scarred,
There's many a time I have cried.
What then do you wish for, I asked the young lad,
With yearning, he slowly replied,
I would love to be free and fly like the birds,
Way up in the sky, and if I had the words,
Write about how I'd feel like inside.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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A Perpetual Stream Of Sacred Consciousness
I asked the mountain
You are very strong
you will exist till the end of creation
The mountain replied numbly
No, Nay, not so
the water can flow me and
convert me to a plain land
then my existence will vanish
I asked the rock
no one can melt you
the rock also replied numbly
No, Nay not so
the water can melt me
and I will be no more
I asked the trees
the water will destroy you
the tree replied
No, Nay not so
it shall irrigate me and
give me life
I asked each and every creatures
all replied
water is more soft, more rich
and more strong
it can destroy and give life too
it can quench thirst of all
and give life to all
I asked the Water
You are soft and mild
You are rich and strong too
The water replied
No, Nay not so
I may be dried at any time
It is poetry,
a perpetual stream of sacred consciousness
flowing ever and ever
beyond the stars and planets and
even beyond plenty of universe
The Poetry can save me and
pray to God for my survival.
poem by Ramesh Rai
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Gender determination
‘Is this a man or a woman? ’
asked a child the other,
pointing to a nude picture.
‘How can I, no dress? ’
answered the other child.
‘Is this a male or a female? ’
asked an adult the other,
pointing to a clothed child.
‘How can I, it’s dressed.”
Answered the other adult.
Child decides by clothes.
Adult confirms without cloth
01.08.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Consultation
‘How are you feeling in general? ’ he asked.
‘Pretty good most of the time then I get these occasional black periods when nothing makes sense and I fear the worst’ I replied.
‘Hmm, any suicidal thoughts? ’ he asked thoughtfully as if embarrassed to ask the question.
I thought for a moment.
‘Well, not really. No, not really’ was all I could say.
He made some notes at this point.
‘And those times of feeling good’ he asked ‘what are they like? ’
‘Like the sun is shining and I feel on top of the world’.
‘But there’s no real reason for that? ’ he asked ‘you just feel good and that’s it? ’
‘Yeah’ I replied.
‘What about your libido? ’ he asked as if enquiring what brand of beer I liked.
‘Funnily that’s pretty good’ I said smiling.
He frowned.
‘Is there any guilt that you feel? ’ he probed.
‘Do you feel guilty when you feel good or see others around you far less well off than you are? ’
‘I guess I do. I feel bad that I can’t feel that good all the time and also sad for those worse than me’.
‘But not real guilt? ’
‘No. Not really’.
‘So you feel bad at times but not guilty? ’
‘Guess not’
‘Do you ever feel bad about not feeling guilty? ’
He knew I was lost at this point and changed tack.
‘When did you last masturbate? ’ he threw in.
‘Can’t remember’ I said startled.
He made some notes.
‘So, you feel guilty about masturbation? ’ he continued.
‘No, not at all’.
‘But you don’t remember when you last did it? ’ he said with a manner of distaste and disbelief.
‘Not really’.
At this point I did not know where all this was going.
‘Do you go to church? ’ he asked.
‘No’
‘Why not? ’
‘Can’t see the point’
‘So why are you here? ’
At this point the confessional ended.
I had been diagnosed as not having enough guilt or grief or angst to be normal and no further help or counselling could be offered.
But, at long last, I felt truly guilty.
So, perhaps, I will find redemption one day.
poem by David Keig
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And Pussy cat
Pussy pussy cat pussy cat
Where have you been
And pussy cat replied
He had been to London
To look at the queen
Again I asked Pussy cat
Where have you been
And pussy cat replied
He had been to Odisha
To look at English
Rule of Nabin.
Pussy cat pussy cat
Further I asked where
Have you been and
Pussy cat replied
He had been to see
Odia people who are fool
And how odia people
Still remain cool
Pussy pussy cat
I asked where have
You been and pussy cat
Replied he had been
To India to see
The democratic rule.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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I cannot forget a conversation that I had with an elderly couple from the tribe. They asked me whether I would kill them after I had finished. When I asked them why they asked that, they replied, Because you white men always do!
quote by Roland Joffe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hair and hustle
Dear can you help me for a while?
asked apologetically for a good smile,
’No’ replied a friend, keeping distance mile,
worries all around so can’t smile,
Hounded by worries, sick for while,
how can I offer even forced smile,
pain in her voice Keeping her mild,
mind seized with thought for her child,
She was extremely sorry,
could not afford luxury as money was worry,
situation was tense and she was in hurry,
Mind not working and hand hitting with furry,
I Will do anything for sick child,
can’t remain quite so mild,
I will have to find some means and way,
Still have no hope and no more say,
’hair’ and ‘hustle’ is answer,
What? Hair and hustle,
what is all this about?
Fumed at answer asked, what is this all about? I asked
Explain it dear nothing going in head,
simple may be lines but can not read,
what do they and what it stand for?
Is that all meaning which they stood for?
Raged at the meaning, hair and hustle stood for,
asked again why? What really they meant?
Hair is just trimming as it is learnt,
Hustle is nothing but only business
I have no option but go for child care,
what is meaning hustle and what about hair,
they loose charm and stand nothing,
I may go for it if offered something,
Life of child is so dear
Pain may be more but I may bear,
Many stories appear and I also hear,
child should get care life I fear,
Child if suffers, I will be broke,
can’t bear any such more stroke,
So do not offer any more joke,
Even get angry if some one poke,
Hustle” I found as prostitute,
So mean word and not good substitute,
It was clever ploy on her part not tell truth,
Situation as warranted life not smooth
I remained restless and night whole awoke,
Packets after packets finished for smoke,
Hustle means selling body as she told,
I could not decide whether move was bold,
I learnt later life was living hell,
She did not find as means well,
I was not ready and also not willing,
But helpless as today soul I am killing
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Change
The other day I walked accross the street
i couldnt believe what I appeared to see...
as I looked at a poor boy who came to me
I asked him his name and he didnt know
he just asked me for change.
I asked where is your mum?
he just asked me for change
I asked where is your dad?
he just asked me for change
I asked will someone come?
he just asked me for change
I asked why are you sad?
with no response to my question there was a pause...
but then once again he asked me for change
see, as i watched him dissapear with his pain
I realised that he actualy asked me...
for a change.
poem by Daniel McCann
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Storage Space
She had been asked to use her uterus,
To incubate the birth of someone else's child.
She was asked if she would keep it baked...
And to become a surrogate,
For a while.
I know my ideals are old fashion.
And a gift wished by another,
Should not be denied.
But if I carried something within me,
For nine months.
It would be hard to see...
Someone take it from my side.
Or denied me the opportunity...
To rush to comfort my child,
When my child cried.
Some have called me a 'mother'.
By another name attached and meant.
And perhaps it is good I am not that kind.
Since I can not perceive myself...
As a storage space,
To be paid nine months for rent!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Interview
(carly simon/don was)
A sweet young man sat on my chair
With a tape machine and a face of fear
He asked how does it feel to be who you are
I thought, this boy really thinks Im a star
I answered him with humility
And then asked him if hed like some tea
Interview, whos interviewing who
Are you interviewing me
Or am I interviewing you
He asked if the rug was some ancient, lovely thing
I lied and said yes a gift from a king?
I watched his arms and how his lips moved
He asked me if my parents approved
He asked to see my ruby ring
And if as a child I had liked to sing
Interview, whos interviewing who
Are you interviewing me
Or am I interviewing you
I said yes, oh yes 400 times
youre so open? he said do you always tell the truth? ?
never,? i said, whats that? ?
But how would it feel to hold me in your arms
You could get to know me down on the farm
Then you could see me as the child Ive become
cause being grown up can be so lonesome
Baby, how would it feel to hold me now
Baby, how would it feel to hold me now
Interview, whos interviewing who
Are you interviewing me
Or am I interviewing you
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Bible Verse
I asked the child why did she curse
Her answer was, she knew not a Bible verse
She never went to church or knew how to say a prayer
So all that she knew, was how to curse and swear,
I was told that her mother had taught her well
But never taught her about heaven or even hell
And all that she knew is from what she had read
While listening to the words that her mother had said.
I asked the child why did she lie
Her response to me, it is better than to cry
As things got bad and then they turned worse
That's all that she knew, and she knew not a Bible verse,
Her mother had told her the things not to do
But then they differed from other's points of view
And all the child knew was from what she had seen
As she watched her mother, which was unforeseen.
I asked the child why did she steal
Taking from others for a terrible ordeal
She answered me, as she placed the goods in her purse
'It is the way that I am', and I know not of a Bible verse
Someday soon I will probably smoke and drink
Spoke the child to me as she began to think
But then am I not the girl that my mother did raise
And every day to my mother, I give her praise.
I asked the child why did she fight
She then said to me, it's better than being polite
Her mother's honor again she had to defend
And fighting is all that she could comprehend
So the child then wiped the pain off of her face
As she slowly walked away in sadness and disgrace
The last thing she said to me as we did converse
She said, I truly wish that I knew a Bible verse.
Randy L. McClave
poem by Randy McClave
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Fay and You and The Fading Bruise
Fay met you
at the bus stop
on the New Kent Road
she was dressed
in the lemon coloured dress
you liked
and her hair
was pulled tight
into a ponytail
where are you going?
she asked
to the Globe
you said
what Shakespeare's Globe?
she asked
no the fleapit cinema
at Camberwell Green
you replied
oh
she said
I've never been there
my daddy doesn't like
me going to cinemas
he says they're
dens of sin
she looked at you
as if you would confirm
her father's words
well it's certainly a den
you stated
but whether its
of sin I don't know
she looked puzzled
and touched
her ponytail
with her hand
are you coming along?
you asked
she looked about
as if her father
might be behind her
should I?
she asked
do you want to?
yes
she replied
then let's go
but I haven't any money
she said
I have enough
you said
my Mother gave me money
for chores I did
oh I see
she muttered
and she bit her lip
what would my daddy say
if he saw me?
he won't
how can you be so sure?
trust me
you said
fathers know little
of what their kids do
she smiled
if you think so
she said
sure I do
besides it'll
do you good
you said
giving her a smile
and then the bus came
and you both got on
and sat next
to each other
and you paid
the bus conductor
the fare
and as the bus
moved off
you both swayed
to the motion
of the bus
her arm touching yours
the fading bruise
on her flesh
a mixture of yellow
and brown
and blue
but you said nothing
besides you thought
if her old man
beats her
what the hell
can I do?
poem by Terry Collett
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One for Ramana
The thunder asked
what is lightning?
The root asked
why is a flower?
The pupil asked
who is the teacher?
The space asked
where is everyone?
The circle asked
when is the end?
The stillness asked
whence word?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Flick-Knife Incident
After the argument
'Helen said'. 'Granny said'.
'Paul said'. 'Granny said'.
'Larry asked'.
Granny,
Who is Mrs Devereux,
Pulled out a flick-knife.
'! ', 'Helen said'.
'Helen asked'. Granny (lengthily replied) .
'Helen asked'. Granny (abruptly replied) .
'Helen asked'. 'Her grandmother said'.
'Larry said'. 'Paul said'.
'Larry asked', 'Does Declan know? '
'Granny said'.
'Larry said', 'I must go and tell.'
Lily 'addressed Paul'.
'Larry said'. 'Mrs Devereux said'. 'Paul said'.
'Lily said', 'Declan's getting sick...'
'Paul asked'. 'Helen said'. 'Paul said'.
Enough said.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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(Meera) The Early Life Of Meera
Rajputs took ’Sati’ as a sacred one
For any live widowed woman
To burn herself in the fire
With her husband in the pyre
Meera was young still.
Lo, it was God’s will
That brought the end
Of Rathan Singh who died.
Her mother, Chandramugi
Went to join him in sati.
But Rao Dudha prevented it
For Meera’s sake, out right.
As Dudha, her grandfather,
Was too old to take care,
It fell on her mother
To care more for her,
A big crowd stood once
Outside the palace entrance
To receive red saris for women
And coarse dhotis for men.
A woman took a sari,
And asked for a dhoti.
As her husband was sick
He couldn’t come to take.
Next to her came Meera,
Asking for a sari from Dudha.
He refused to give her one,
As it was for a poor woman..
When Meera was stubborn,
Laughingly he gave her one.
Again for a dhoti she asked,
The one for her dear husband.
Dudha, who was surprised,
Asked, “Who’s your husband? ”
Promptly she then replied.
“Krishna is my husband.”
Chandramugi explained him,
How Meera had this dream,
How, one day, as a child
Lord Krishna she married.
On the girl’s passion
And her spiritual vision,
Happy they were first,
But became worried at last.
“How can a silent idol
Marry this mad girl?
Is it really possible?
What’s God’s will? ”
So said her mother
To her grandfather,
Who could understand
Her passion as a child.
He said, “When she grows old,
Reality she’ll understand.
Now, she’s only a child
To know about this world.”
But for the girl Meera,
She felt herself Radha,
Krishna’s beloved Consort
In the Dwaraka Resort.
Her every song revealed
Her deep thoughts inside,
As a wife of Krishna,
As Krishna’s Meera.
poem by Rajaram Ramachandran
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Naresh Sonee Gave A Run
Once on road a male Naresh Sonee was furiously acting funny,
On to get hold of some body, he was continuously running,
People stopped him, and asked - “Why the hell you are so urgently running? ”,
'To catch hold the former runner, who is trying hard to escape while dodging',
Naresh Sonee was asked by people, Some on by crossers-n-passer,
“Is the one to whom after you are running robber else murderer? ”,
“Had he fingered or flirt your wife, sister, daughter, or kidnap your child, either?
Naresh Sonee replied running in haste, “No, he is not any, but a cheater ',
The onlookers demanded “Had the former runner cheated some dollars or coin?
Naresh Sonee replied, “No, I have listened to all of his poems, he is not listening mine”
poem by Naresh Sonee
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The Birth
he was born on a dark lonely night
and not a soul was in sight.
his mother was driving home
on that starry night, when she started
to feel the contractions.
she knew right then that she would
have to take action.
she pulled alongside that old country road
and her stomach she did hold
.
when she felt that waterbag bust
and in GOD she put her trust.
she asked the LORD what she should do
for she knew not what to do.
she heard a voice so soft and gentle
that told her to stay calm.
for this was a special child
that would be born this night
and that everything was going
to be allright.
she pushed the front seat back
as far as it would go
and took off her clothing so
that she could see.
the pains became so severe
and a head did appear.
she pushed with all her might
so that this child could be free.
for this was the way
it was meant to be.
as the child started to come out
from her lungs came a shout.
this child came out with such ease
and she felt a gentle breeze
as if it was a whisper upon her face
and she knew it was through GODS grace.
with a penknife she cut the cord.
and cleaned him up the best she could.
she wrapped him within her coat
and put the heater on
and drove back to a distant farm.
when she got to the farm
and banged upon the door.
when no one answered
she knealt down on the floor.
again she called upon the LORD
and asked what she should do.
he told her to look towads the barn
for there was a light as bright as day
and the farmer was baling hay.
as she got to the barn door
she collapsed in sheer exhaustion.
when she finally opened up her eyes
on the hay she did lay.
and beside her lay her child.
and the farmer told her she was
out for quite a while.
but the ambulance was on the way
and that he could not move her
in fear of jeopardizing her life
and that she was cleaned up
by his lovely wife.
now the farmers wife was
a religious woman
who believed that nothing
happens by chance.
and at this child she did glance.
she said that he had an aura
of light above his head
just like the bible which she had read.
she looked at this childs mother
and asked her this:
'is this coincidence or is this
a sign from above
that he would be in a barn
like christ was in the manger?
she recalled that gentle voice and
what it had said.
that a special child would be born on this night.
now you tell me.
was she wrong, or was she right?
poem by Louis Rams
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A Rose-bud advises man…
I asked a rose-bud, ‘who gave you your beauty? ’
And it replied, ‘my mother’s sap gave me! ’
I asked again, ‘who gave your mother plant, its sap? ’
It said, ‘the soil and rain by roots, the sun through leaves! ’
I asked the rose-bud, ‘who gave the soil, sun and rain such abilities? ’
It replied, ‘the One who made all things, and you and me! ’
And now the rose-bud asked me, ‘But why do you ask such questions?
Are you not made beautiful too by the same One,
Who made me, the moon, sky, soil and sun?
And yet, like you, we cannot walk or run! ’
It continued, ‘we plants feel sad we cannot move like how you do! ’
‘We buds grow bigger by each dawn;
The Maker feels so happy when we’re born,
And smiles on seeing us each morn,
Turning ecstatic, when we blossom on,
The landscape to perfume and to adorn –
By morrow, most of us are almost gone! ’
I asked the rose-bud, ‘are the dew-drops then because you cry? ’
And it replied, ‘they are the tears of joy and sadness of God on high,
Who knows we are born to sooner die.’
But tell me man, such questions, you ask, ‘why? ’
The rose-bud went on:
‘God gave you man, woman, a long life-span;
And do many things, you surely can! ’
God made you far more beautiful!
Be satisfied and be dutiful;
God is our Master One, most wonderful!
Praise Him, thank Him for all His gifts to you, bountiful! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 2-2-2010
poem by John Celes
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