One’s tongue is the persistent calyx.
I read and write only in English.
It goes on for the last fifty years.
Yet my comfort zone is my mother tongue,
Only where I enjoy songs and dialogs.
14.02.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Soul Speaks Mother Tongue
He read English books and write English poem
Throughout his carrier and yet heart in heart
He enjoys hearing and singing songs in Tamil.
He shouts in Tamil and cries in Tamil.
The inner self speaks only in mother tongue.
One feels at ease only in mother tongue.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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English Jan
She still has her English accent the one known as English Jan
And she never was a mother nor a wife to any man
She ages without dyes or makeups her hair is silver gray
But do not say about her she has known a better day.
She migrated to Melbourne from Blackpool her Hometown by the Irish sea
When she was in her early twenties in nineteen fifty three
Fifty one years in Australia yet she remains undimmed by time
And more than forty years have passed since she was in her prime.
For forty years a school teacher her retirement she enjoy
And she will make the most of every day until the day she die
She plays bowls on a saturday and on sunday evening after eight
She socializes with her friends and always until late.
On sunday mornings at the Corner cafe she is one I always see
And she does always say hello and smile and wave at me
So down to earth and carefree and untainted by conceit
And one of those good people I feel happy for to meet
She does not use dyes or makeups and she ages in the natural way
And she is one of those nice people who makes a new friend every day
From the English Town of Blackpool by the cold Irish sea
She migrated to Melbourne in nineteen fifty three.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Comfort Zone
Where do we go
When theres a need to be loved
Like you need to be loved
Oh, Ill let you know
Just what to do and where to go
Hey welcome to the comfort zone
When you need to be loved like you need to be loved
Welcome to the comfort zone
Do whatever feels right and turns you on
After a hard days work
Theres one thing to be certain of
This ol familiar love
Its not unusual to find that its sensual
Its all you need to let go
Theres no need to try
Or compromise
Or settle for another outside of my love
The thing to do
When you get through
Heed the message seek the comfort of my zone
Hey welcome to the comfort zone
When you need to be loved like you need to be loved
Welcome to the comfort zone
Do whatever feels right and turns you on
Hey let me make you comfortable
Let me take control
And give your mind a break from the day you made
Lets turn the lights down low
And oh the rest you know
Ill be here for you
cause you just stepped into the comfort zone
Written by kipper jones & reggie stewart
song performed by by Vanessa Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mother, Unreplaceable Woman
When I was made,
And suddenly born in to this world,
From mother's belly,
And breath my first air, , ,
Grateful that I can saw how beautiful,
My mother face with a glittering tears,
Carried me with happiness,
And that's the first time I feel calm, , ,
Protected and be loved, ,
And finnaly grew older,
Be a nice girl,
Against the world on own,
Cause mother's tolds,
not Fairy tales, but some act, , ,
But it just make me remember,
How old you are,
Look at the way,
And cried with all that misery, , ,
But kept still strong,
Never be wrong,
And try to go on,
Never give it up, , ,
You teach me, sing to me,
Tell me when I was wrong,
Help me to understood,
Always on my side, , ,
This day, I remembering,
Fifty Three Years has passed,
13 November 2008,
I circle it on the date note, , ,
You've been here along that journey,
Across that many barrier and challenge,
Go around the world to see,
For more knowledge and study,
At this 13 November 2008,
The rain falling,
followed by my said,
From the far at upstairs,
'Happy Birthday, My Mother, Hope The God Always Be Yours Side'
(For My Mother Birthday, Thank You For My Mother That
Cried When She Read This Poem... I Love You, Mother...)
00.39,13 November 2008, Indonesia's Time, , ,
poem by Kaede Rirunaru
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Briefs
Those darn Greeks were right-
Enjoy everything but enjoy
in moderation.
For Burns' birthday Duncan
Of Edinborough read.
Why have the imitation
when you can have the masterpiece?
The Past-morals and ideals
murky and opinioned
at worst, but for architecture
undeniably interesting.
Fluent in English, having impulses
and not knowing what else to do
Jon dubbed himself a poet-
gifting the world
with countless examples of his art.
Late for her tryst with Mars
Venus twinkles in-
Nightime otherwise calm and chill.
From fifty centuries of soiled morals
(read agricultural)
Edna struggles to be free
and has almost made it.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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That Fifty Year Old Woman
That fifty year old woman
she is someones mother
that fifty year old woman
she is someones lover
them fifty years of her life
unseen by a cover.
Covered by the leaves
from the autumn trees is the grass
surrounded by blue tape
and nosey people who pretend to pass
a group of actors walk by
they have come from a history class
to make history new
with conversation with questions to ask.
A fifty year old woman
in an autumn so cold
a fifty year old woman
seen dark winter unfold
them fifty years of life
it is all we are told.
The actors, they didn't get any information
they did not get pictures
nothing known about the situation
nothing at all to discuss
fifty years of age is all thats said
on the morning paper on the fifty bus
thats all thats said
a fifty year old woman, shes found dead.
That fifty year old woman
shes not someones mother
that fifty year old woman
how she had no lover
them fifty years of life
unseen by a cover.
That fifty year old woman
she was quoted in the paper today
that fifty year old woman will be gone tomorrow
the writers they will show no sorrow
because its the way things work
as people pass
she no longer lies on grass
shes covered in dirt.
poem by Daniel McCann
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Happy Mother’s Day,2008
I’m glad to have a mother good,
Who nursed me well and gave good food;
Who taught me how to read and write,
And sang a lullaby each night.
Who showed me how to walk and run,
And played with me to have some fun;
Who kept me spick and span each day,
And told me stories like a Fay.
Who showed me how to pray to God,
And caned me sometimes as a rod;
Who reared me well with love and care,
And toiled all life for my welfare.
A lovely soul, one’s mother is,
Who shows the way to every bliss!
God bless my mother specially,
And keep her happy and healthy.
‘Wish you dear mom, a Happy Mother’s Day,2008! ’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-1-2008
poem by John Celes
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To My Inspiring Muse
Inspire my mind to make
soul-stirring music,
to enthrall the doleful hearts
for enchanting this world………., …..(Inspire..)
When I fly through the
Himalayan Valleys,
ignite my heart to sing,
the paeans to Nature………..(Inspire..)
I want to enfold the
ennobling river Ganges
and enjoy a nap on the
lap of the cool breeze. ……….(Inspire….)
I should feel exalted
from my injured heart;
and from my freak frenzies,
I will be strewing flowers. …….. (Inspire…)
Heart-warming songs I can
sing in my mother tongue.
To tell her fame all the world
I strained me in other tongue.
I love to sink in the serene sea of English
to bring up the pearls for ensuring a new birth. …..(Inspire…)
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Fifty Years Of Marriage
With dye and hair colouring they cover their gray
Their fifty years of marriage they celebrate today
Through fifty years of marriage they have argued their way
In their love hate relationship one well might say.
Their better days one can say for them are long gone
And they age without grace though time is ticking on
Their children are grand-parents and the years on them show
Since they too are ageing and their fastest pace slow.
Fifty happy years together by some we are told
But others who know them well and with their words more bold
Will tell you they never did see eye to eye
But why they stay together one must wonder why.
They have stayed together for so many years
One can hardly say of them the lovely old dears
Since they both are quite quarrelsome and grumpy as well
Perhaps without quarrels life for them would be hell.
Fifty years together and the same bed they share
Yet even in public places at each other they swear
Such marriages as their's suppose never were rare
They are not the World's only dysfunctional pair.
Today their descendants will celebrate the marriage of their Pop and Gran
And applaud this wonderful woman and man
But the truth of their marriage they will never tell
How they seem to enjoy giving each other hell.
poem by Francis Duggan
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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The Undereducated
Just remember I don't come from the best
For what I write is but pure desire and dedication
An obsession in which I will learn my lesson
Being poor doesn't deny me the right
Today or tomorrow night
I draw you in because I write what I would want to read
Not just anything will satisfy
For I am picky only of those of true intellect
Attract my utmost intention
Think of me one who likes to read new inventions
Always original, and always a draw
I read and re read to perfect indeed
But I'm of the undereducated so I'm still flawed
Ten years of constant writing and no schooling has made me the next undereducated bread winner
A defender to those who criticize, by stereo type
But I care not
For I am what I am.
You want to judge, judge by the mistakes, in my grammar I make.
Teach me to appreciate the English language
Be my gauge, tell me what I can do better.
For I read all comments and letters.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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When I Write
When I write,
I do my best...
To incite an insight!
Some may not like.
But I seek a comprehension.
Not to revisit...
A safety zone,
Already known.
Or one that has been mentioned.
And when I write,
I choose to test...
A curiosity,
Within me...
That does not sit and rest.
I want to produce seeds of understanding.
And in the doing...
Even I am not thoroughly delighted,
By what I have to admit...
Is a bunch of 'horseshhhiftivities'
From that which I have sown.
When I write!
'Horseshiftivities is not a word! '
I've entitled this poem 'When-I-Write'
Not 'Give-me-Your-Unsolicited-Opinion'.
'Did you or did you 'not' ask me to read it? '
AND not a thing more did I ask!
Did I?
'Correct.'
But you must admit,
That 'horseshifting' business drew you in,
Right?
'No,
Not really.
I knew if I didn't read it...
You wouldn't allow me to leave.
Then I would have to deal with much more,
Than just this 'horseshift' on your shoulders! '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Write The Songs
Ive been alive forever,
And I wrote the very first song.
I put the words and the melodies together,
I am music,
And I write the songs.
I write the songs that make the whole world sing.
I write the songs of love and special thing s.
I write the songs that make the young girls cry.
I write the songs, I write the songs.
My home lies deep within you,
And Ive got my own place in your sole.
Now, when I look out through your eyes,
Im youg again, even though Im very old.
Chorus
Oh my music makes you dance
And gives your spirit to take a chance,
And I wrote some rock n roll so you can move.
Music fills your heart,
Well, thats a real fine place to start.
Its from me its for you,
Its from you, its from me,
Its a world wide symphony.
Chorus
I am music, and I write the songs.
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Whatever Comes To Mind
Singers sing
their love songs,
poets write
romantic poetry,
but I just sit and write
whatever comes to mind.
I don’t write
to any classification
or any given theme.
All I do is sit and write
whatever comes to mind.
I have no chosen subject,
nor any chosen form.
I just sit and write
whatever comes to mind.
25 February 2008
poem by David Harris
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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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Check if you are a Tamil
To be a Tamil, to be born to Tamils
And to speak Tamil as mother tongue
Aren’t alone a sufficient proof.
You must speak vowels tearing apart and
With nouns in English and verbs in Tamil.
You must have a hero higher than God
And read, if at all, the news of movies.
You will do public nuisances at length
And must be insensitive to them.
You shall respect Tamil and ignore Tamils.
You celebrate festivals by watching
In TV Tamil debates and stars’ talks.
You seek south Indian restaurants abroad.
Then you can boast you are a true Tamil.
19.10.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Based Upon Their Ethnic Ties
If 'rules' of immigration,
Were applied many years ago...
To those who could not read or write,
Or speak the English language properly...
There would be fewer caucasians,
Irritated by productive aliens.
And even fewer still,
Igniting conflict over what rights they have.
Since many of them have risen to heights,
Of incompetence.
Based upon their ethnic ties!
Only the American Blacks,
Have been purposely disenfranchised.
And treated like extraterrestials 'allowed' to visit.
With limited assistance to sustain themselves.
If 'rules' of immigration,
Were applied many years ago...
To those who could not read or write,
Or speak the English language properly...
There would be fewer caucasians,
Irritated by productive aliens.
And even fewer still,
Igniting conflict over what rights they have.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Read the original
To enjoy Kalidasa, learn Sanskrit.
To enjoy the Shakespeare, learn English.
To know Kamban, learn Tamil
Translation and simplification won’t do.
26.03.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Foreign Tongue
While speaking in a foreign tongue
many challenges are there
that I enjoy.
New culture
new languages
new rules
new way of thinking
make it romantic
that I enjoy.
I enjoy the mistake
I enjoy new experiments
I enjoy new manner of
Speaking writing
that you have.
While speaking
in a foreign tongue
a new way of life
come to the surface
new words new lines
new and new
that we both
enjoy and like.
poem by Gajanan Mishra
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Pen In Hand
I have tried to analyse myself
and why I do the things, I do.
When I was a kid I wanted to be a policeman,
though I had the height,
I wasn’t that smart,
so as that idea went out the window
and no new ideas came along,
I decided to become a nobody
for what else could I be.
I was no good at English,
nor any good at maths,
I couldn’t even roller skate
as I kept falling down.
Everything I tried to do
I failed miserably,
so why did I take up writing,
it doesn’t make sense at all.
English was my worst subject,
so why would I want to write
I can’t think of any reason for it.
Then came the advent of the Beatles
and everyone wanted to be in a group.
I couldn’t sing and I couldn’t play
an instrument of any sort,
but Paul and John wrote songs,
and Paul had the same birthday as me.
Could it have been an omen?
I co-oped a friend into writing a song
with the immortal words
that if they can do it, why can’t we.
He agreed and millionaires
we were both going to be.
He gave up after our second attempt,
but for some reason I carried on.
Now forty-five years later
I am still trying to figure it out why
I would want to take pen in hand.
I guess it is something
I’ll never understand.
20 September 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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