Cultural Drift
For unwashed beliefs,
and semi –truths, someone wins
a half-bread and claims immortality.
I am ashamed to witness a filthy event,
life’s descent into a can.
The quiet is broken in myriad,
fragments of noisy confessions.
One day older I become today,
harvesting the sorrow.
Laughter did not work.
On the swollen lips of poverty and dirt.
The primal need sprouts again
and again in the spaces,
between frightening steps.
Each day, one more song dies.
When death starts writing
poems on the wall
you are frightened and want to fly out.
The image-making was not sufficient,
grief had erased all the jottings.
The cultural drift was overwhelming.
poem by Satish Verma
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Related quotes
Not All Poems Are Confessions
NOT ALL POEMS ARE CONFESSIONS
Not all poems are confessions,
But mine often are-
I write to understand and justify myself
And to help myself know
What to do next-
The writing itself is often the action that helps
Not all poems are confessions
And not all poems are therapy
And not all poems are prayer
But mine often are.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Event Of My Death
Event of my Death
As I Iay in the dawn of the hours waiting for my body to rest
I wonder what I will do in the event of my death….
In the event of my death most just think heaven or hell
No not me it doesn’t stop there…
In the event of my death my spirit will leave my body
My spirit will truly start living
In the event of my death I case my location,
Thinking about what led up to this…
In the event of my death I will visit all my loved ones…
My first visit will be to my king..
I will watch over him making him feel secure..
In the event of my death I will make my presence known
I will make them feel me in the heart and their surroundings…
In the event of my death I will travel…
I will hover over all the pyramids in Egypt,
I will explore all the places I’ve never been..
In the event of my death I will talk with my creator..
I will know all the answers…
Most of all In the Event of my death I will meet with my brother..
My brother and I will be together again…
In the Event of My death I will realize I’m really not dead..
In the Event of My death I will know that my spirit lives on..
I will know what living is all about…
In the Event of My death I will be immortal
I will be goddess a In the Event of My death...
I will be what I was born to be....
I will be free
I will be free of insecurities, free of poverty,
free of calamity, free of a broken heart,
Free of depression, free of negativity,
Free of racism, free of prejudice
I will be free In the Event of my Death
I will be all the things I was born to be...
I will be powerful, I will be beautiful, and I will be limitless
I will be a Goddess in the Event of my death...
Now what will you be....
Author: Templar Thomas
poem by Templar Thomas
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Words On Conceptual Poetry (8)
what is life? is not a qoestion of investigation but a survey of reality and witness
you might catch a whole picture of witness and so the quisi-witness will revolve against the autunomy of sectional obessions on uncomplicated impossibility
who are with you at the moment? is not question anymore now but a relationship of uncertainy leading to performatives and democracy-process of inapproriation or beyond appropriation you are unique bracked by your existence nobody is somebody final countdown to a new and prosperous year marching towards conceptually - shot movies of the streets
happy conceptual way to making-it-a-reality and art of proofs you can never make an image of diplomatic truths-binding-conditions emergind from the
half-myths and half-actualities life-lines
The Song of the Shirt
The Song of the Shirt
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread--
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt."
"Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work — work — work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!
"Work — work — work
Till the brain begins to swim;
Work — work — work
Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
"Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!
Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch — stitch — stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear its terrible shape,
It seems so like my own —
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!
"Work — work — work!
My Labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread — and rags.
That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor —
A table — a broken chair —
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!
"Work — work — work!
From weary chime to chime,
Work — work — work!
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,
As well as the weary hand.
"Work — work — work,
In the dull December light,
And work — work — work,
When the weather is warm and bright —
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.
Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet —
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!
Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread —
Stitch! stitch! stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, —
Would that its tone could reach the Rich! —
She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"
poem by Thomas Hood
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Men With Broken Hearts
You'll meet many just like me upon life's busy street
With shoulders stooped and heads bowed low and eyes that stare in defeat
Or souls that live within the past where sorrow plays all parts
Where a living death is all that's left for men with broken hearts
You have no right to be the judge to criticize and condemn
Just think but for the grace of God it would be you instead of him
One careless step a thoughtless deed and then the misery starts
And to those who weep death comes cheap these men with broken hearts
Oh so humble you should be when they come passing by
For it's written that the greatest men never get too big to cry
Some lose faith in love and life when sorrow shoots her darts
And with hope all gone they walk alone these men with broken hearts
You've never walked in that man's shoes or saw things through his eyes
Or stood and watched with helpless hands while the heart inside you dies
Some were propers some were kings and some were masters of the arts
But in their shame they're all the same these men with broken hearts
Life sometimes can be so cruel that a heart will pray for death
God why must these living dead know pain with every breath
So help your brother along the road no matter where he starts
For the God that made you made them too these men with broken hearts
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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For a friend who starts
I am happy you find this thing
This old thing this oldest thing
Of being us
Making us feel us making the rest
See us making them
Take the form we are forming
This image these thoughts
These fragments
Of our humanity
Thanks for finally becoming like me
My friend you have just started
This art
I am happy for you and I will see
You more in what
You write
Your poems shaping your soul
Your poems to bare them all
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Truth Are Lies.. Lies Are Truth..
speak your truth from your quivering lips
but also your lies comes through them..
your half lies are also your half truths
yet your half truths are also your half lies
what shall you talk about them if your thruth are your lies
and your lieas are your truths
then this world would be filled of noise
being lies and being the truth
until all of us will be lost
what to believe and follow
will it be the half lies
or the half truths?
which one is to choice
the truth is yours but also are the lies..
so let us all live with he truths and the lies
within our hearts within our minds
till we are lost in a maze of half lies and half truths
poem by Villiamor Calventas
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The war is a cultural event for us, because we die with a song on our lips!
aphorism by Ninus Nestorovic, translated by Dijana Zdravkovic
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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Choriambics I
Ah! not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and the suns of spring
Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring;
Ah! not now should you come, now when the road beckons,
and good friends call,
Where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea! and the best of all,
Love, on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could not give! . . .
Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper, and whine, I that have yet to live?
Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips of you,
Now, when dawn in the blood wakes, and the sun laughs up the eastern blue;
I'll forget and be glad!
Only at length, dear, when the great day ends,
When love dies with the last light, and the last song has been sung,
and friends
All are perished, and gloom strides on the heaven: then, as alone I lie,
'Mid Death's gathering winds, frightened and dumb, sick for the past, may I
Feel you suddenly there, cool at my brow; then may I hear the peace
Of your voice at the last, whispering love, calling, ere all can cease
In the silence of death; then may I see dimly, and know, a space,
Bending over me, last light in the dark, once, as of old, your face.
poem by Rupert Brooke
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Choriambics-I.
Ah! not now, when desire burns, and the wind calls, and the suns of spring
Light-foot dance in the woods, whisper of life, woo me to wayfaring;
Ah! not now should you come, now when the road beckons,and good friends call,
Where are songs to be sung, fights to be fought, yea! and the best of all,
Love, on myriad lips fairer than yours, kisses you could not give! . . .
Dearest, why should I mourn, whimper, and whine, I that have yet to live?
Sorrow will I forget, tears for the best, love on the lips of you,
Now, when dawn in the blood wakes, and the sun laughs up the eastern blue;
I'll forget and be glad!
Only at length, dear, when the great day ends,
When love dies with the last light, and the last song has been sung, and friends
All are perished, and gloom strides on the heaven: then, as alone I lie,
'Mid Death's gathering winds, frightened and dumb, sick for the past, may I
Feel you suddenly there, cool at my brow; then may I hear the peace
Of your voice at the last, whispering love, calling, ere all can cease
In the silence of death; then may I see dimly, and know, a space,
Bending over me, last light in the dark, once, as of old, your face.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1908)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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My Song of Love
I sing my song, with my life.
My song lives.
My song of love.
I saw you there,
With your beautiful hair.
I did not know that feeling,
Of my wounds healing.
I have been hurt,
Flung down in the dirt,
Kicked in the face,
But with you, my heart starts to race.
My feelings grow as I follow,
I feel less and less hollow,
I am starting to walk on new found lands,
Holding tightly to your hands.
But these paths cave in,
A battle I know I cannot win,
I feel myself sinking into the sand,
And I let go of your hand.
Down and down I go,
And now it seems like years ago,
That my love was strong,
And now my love dies with my song.
I sing my song, with my life.
My song dies.
My song of love.
poem by Robert Head
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Death part 1
Death can strike when we least expect it
Death is a significant event that will change our lives
Death will cause sorrow, depression, grief, and loneliness
Death is like the ending cycle of one's life and a beginning for another
But death can also bring new life
poem by Jeffrey Liminsang
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A Fire-sky
The sunset was like a fire-sky
That truly lit up my world
Clouds were orange and yellow
Like a paintbrush making swirls
The beauty was overwhelming
But a little bit frightening as well
It raged as though with fury
As it all began to swell
The colors were also reflected
In the lake where trees surround
It was quiet as I stood mesmerized
There was barely a single sound
I saw some fellows out fishing
Their bodies in semi-dark
Nothing looked quite real
The lake looked cold and stark
I doubt that I will ever see
A sunset just like this again
The entire sky so unimaginable
In a shocking kind of blend!
poem by Marilyn Lott
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Down At The Arcade
A Perfect day to get out of bed
Shower, dress, shave, kiss you on the head
Then I hit the office and my head starts to swim
A perfect day to just walk around
See a violent movie and check the sounds
But even on the street when I hear a phone ring my heart starts to beat
When I get home I don't want you to speak
Don't talk to me about work
Please don't talk to me about work
I'm up to my eyeballs in dirt -
With work, with work
How many dollars
How many sales
How many liars
How many tales
How many insults must you take in this one life
I'm in prison most of the day
So please excuse me if I get this way
But I have got obligations to keep -
So be very careful when you speak
Don't talk to me about work
Please don't talk to me about work
I'm up to my eyeballs in dirt -
With work, with work
Don't talk to me about work
Please don't talk to me about work
I'm up to my eyeballs in dirt -
With work, with work
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Funky Milk
I've got a secret
But she's got a lot of secrets
I've got my pride
And she's got
It's kinda cruel
This fear of incantation
Well love's a game
And she's winning
No control
No beliefs
Wear me on your sleeve
She's no fool
And I'm no brain
You can't tell me
Buy or sell me
Or play me for the fool
I've seen it all
I've seen it all
We're all alone now
But I'm feeling so alone
She's talking politics
And I'm speechless
I'm just a statue
That she likes her friends to look at
No immortality
Just grief
Well love's a two way road
You gotta give it to receive
If I didn't care for you
I'd have half a mind to leave
Another pair of bloodstained eyes
Another broken life
Play your little song and dance
Upon the killer's life
I used to feel such joy
Just to hold your hand
But now I feel like crying
'Cause I'm not a man
I'm not a man
song performed by by Stone Sour
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Man Like Me
Should you ever meet
A man like me
On a road or some busy street
With a back so scared
Head bent low
And eyes that have seen defeats
With a soul that fight the past
Where sorrow's play their broken harps
A living death, and all that's left
It this man with a broken heart
My family? Well? They've no right
To judge, or critize, nor even condemn
Because, sometimes their actions
Are just like them
Oh such careless steps, such thoughtless deeds
Oh how my misery starts
For I have faced, so much abuse
And that's what gave this broken heart
So humble, I think you could be
When I come passing by
For even the greatest...(God) ...
Was never so great
That He didn't stop to help and cry
I've tried not to lose my faith
I've held to love, all my life
Even when among all that strife
So even when sorrow throws, all those poison darts
Or when I've seen hope, all gone
I've walked alone and continued on
With broken heart
My family you've never walked in
this man shoes
Or seen the things, these eyes
have seen
Nor stood and watched with helpless hand
While the heart inside of you dies and stings
I never was a rich man, or master painter
Or had any words of art
Yet I still claim
I Love you same
Even with this broken heart
Life sometimes been so terribly cruel
There was a time I even prayed for death
There was a time of pain... when pain...
Was with every pain filled breath
So I say help that man, or friend
Or even your brother, along this road
It matters not... from where you start
For it was God...whom made you
To help that man, with a broken heart
poem by Clyde Bryson
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Simple Thoughts
Simple thoughts
Simple minds
Draw up the curtain blinds
Lets see what is inside
A long weary journey home
built in a city far from Rome
With each gear the thoughts accelerate
Dreading the point when home is near
Shortly they disintegrate into fragments
Framents of love
Fragments of hope
Fragments of light in
the middle of night
Fragments of a peaceful bed
To rest ones tired swollen body
from a days work
after been well fed
They disintegrate into
Fragments of a night drink
All the bitterness and sorrow
can now sink
The mind can no longer think
Copyright 2005 - Sylvia Chidi
poem by Sylvia Chidi
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To A Twelve Year-old Child
-A 12-year-old girl, who became despondent over her family’s poverty, hanged herself inside their makeshift house a day after her father told her he could not give her the P100 she needed for a school project.
-The government is taking responsibility for a 12-year-old girl who took her life because of extreme poverty but assured that steps are being taken to ease hunger and poverty, officials said on Thursday.
-News reports of The Philippine Daily Inquirer,2007
The deep shadows that enveloped your home
And never retreated since you were born
Became the light that illuminated your mind.
I sorrow for your death, my dear child
Your mother’s milk on your lips barely dried
And she is not tired from singing cradlesongs
I did not tell you that there is life…still
There is life beyond a pad paper and a pencil
that fathers forced into shameful indolence
could not purchase, even with their blood
This world did not demand heroism from
someone so tender and innocent as you
Because it owed you; you did not owe it.
I sorrow for your death, my dear child
But I must release the black garb soon
for your small grave is a large gift
to every cold, famished child like you
An intensely brilliant light for a world
that is too dark; yes, too disgracefully dark
for the blindingly clear sparks and lightning
emitted by charged voices hoarse from
traveling too much space in too much time
You are the voice of the unheeded loud voices.
Your grave is the commanding energy
that will rouse a nation groping in the dark
for its soul fatigued from hopelessness,
broken promises and aimless wandering
Resigned to a fate worse than death
For there is no hunger in the cemetery,
not even cold, in spite of its glacial ambiance
Your corpse is the chance at redemption
of them that wear the crown but never
rode the horse to the unspeakable places
where every human blight celebrates
victory handed on a silver platter by the enemy.
I sorrow for your death
It is one death too many
the death of a million children
that should end with your death
But I will not slur your sacrifice
The tears that flow are an amalgam
of crushing grief and a song of hope.
poem by Cheryl L. DaytecYañgot
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Dont Talk To Me About Work
A perfect day to get out of bed
Shower, dress, shave, kiss you on the head
Then I hit the office and my head starts to swim
A perfect day to just walk around
See a violent movie, check the sounds
But even on the street
When I hear a phone ring my heart starts to beat
When I get home I dont want you to speak
Dont talk to me about work
Please dont talk to me about work
Im up to my eyeballs in dirt
With work, with work
How many dollars, how many sales
How many liars, how many tales
How many insults must you take in this one life
Im in prison most of the day
So please excuse me, if I get this way
But I have got obligations to keep
So be very careful when you speak
Dont talk to me about work
Please dont talk to me about work
Im up to my eyeballs in dirt
With work, with work
Please dont talk to me about work
Dont you talk to me about work
Im up to my eyeballs in dirt
With work, with work
Dont talk to me about work
Dont you talk to me about work
Dont you talk to me about work
Please dont talk to me about work
Dont you talk to me about work
Please dont talk to me about work
Dont you talk to me about work
Please dont talk to me about work
Dont you talk to me about work
Please dont talk to me about work
...
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It Is A Habit
writing poems
when you really write poems
everyday and every moment of your life
even when you're in the middle of your
bread and butter eating thing
or even when you are defecating
writing poems becomes a habit
even when you sleep even when you dream
writing poems becomes a part of your system
you eat poetry you vomit poetry
you digest poetry you poo poetry
you breathe poetry you sweat poetry
you love poetry and you live with your poetry
and at the end you die with poetry
and your epitaph says: here lies the poet,
choked with poetry.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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