One Hundred Laments
Trading the sweetness, a rainbow
on icefalls, you will come back on rocks
and drink the elixir of death.
A fantastic dream of soap bubbles in a tumbler,
ejecting the inky grief on the transparent glass.
The pink goddess of wealth
will descend again in your bowls. Brassica
will decide the future of grass.
The moon ride has become cheaper in cans
like sardines, unethical but sleeping with god.
Thongs were visible on steps of bathing ghats
for the benefit of bullfighters. Gibbons
indulging in aerial bombing. Comfortable
in groves jacarandas were smiling.
Unlike you I smelt the dried flowers
between the pages of history
to meet the shadows on the walls of time.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Talking Spirit
Water has its own mind.
Becomes a rival
in the crack of a rock.
If the moon cries;
it becomes dew
on the slender grass.
The maiden love,
you will find it on
bed at night.
And when the priest
becomes featureless
it goes in the eyes of a god.
When death smiles,
it fills the glass
you drink it like elixir.
poem by Satish Verma
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A Tin Of Sardines
A tin of Sardines.
Mother by an assembly line putting tiny sardines into tins,
a machine did the rest, a squirt of oil and a lid stamped on.
Sardines side by side, in total darkness, wait to be eaten.
But first of all the sardines had to be smoked, the smoker
my mother’s lover, he visited her every Sunday afternoon,
and I was sent out to find a place that sold ice cream, even
when it rained. Rusting sardine cans, littering the wayside,
don’t walk barefoot in the grass at summer time. Mother
by an assembly line, putting sardines into tins, the smoker
had another girlfriend now and I got no Sunday ice cream.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Blossom showers
You and I behold
A white peacock and a peahen
Infuse in love
Amidst ethereal rainbow showers.
With perfumed hearts in tremouring desire
We stand in pair
Beneath a canopy of
Pink crab-apple blossoms,
Shaking its boughs,
Bathing in an incessant fragrant deluge
Of raining pink flowers.
Upon the pink satin carpet,
You and I
Make love for the first time
In diffused haloed twilight
Beneath a pink muslin drape
Immersed in
Indulgent moon-drenched vernal showers
Tumbler Of Glass
Take it my daughter
this tumbler of glass
fill it with the flame from the hearth
close to your being
in a tight clasp
Keep my daughter
this tumbler of glass
Even if its glow, tenderly
seeps out
let no one ever know what it was
the glass must'nt crack
your gait mustn't flag
filled to the brim
don't let it overflow
don't let your thirst
spill across
Take it my daughter
this tumbler of glass
poem by Harbhajan Singh
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Rain-tree
Rain-tree
The rain-tree is of cassia family -
Like an elephant it stands on the road, clothed
With thick green foliage, dark against the sky
All along the Bandra-Kurla road in Mumbai.
You have to exert a little and see
Over the top to see the nazuna-type
Of pink flowers sitting above the foliage
In plentiful numbers, with up-thrust pink hairs.
Unlike the African tulip in front of ONGC
At Bandra Flyover visible from the distance,
Here the pink and green does not show off
As rain-tree flowers don’t advertise themselves.
Unlike copper-pod’s bright yellow flowers
The rain tree flowers don’t weave a carpet:
I’ve never seen the flowers on the ground below
Nor do they wither on the tree, how I wonder!
In monsoon rains, the leaves shine specially,
Transparent drops falling on walkers below,
Or with a thud on the racing car bonnets too,
Some choose to fall on road to rise a bit upwards.
I have not understood why it is called rain-tree:
Are they attracted, peacock-like, to the rain-clouds,
Or does the rain-bird which drinks water straight from heavens
Prefer this tree, and inspire Kalidasa to write Meghdoot?
poem by Daniel Trevelyn Joseph
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Dream In Color
You wake up to tell me
(That you're numb inside, that the feelings all have died)
You're praying and you're saying
(That you do believe, but I don't believe that's true)
Everything has always been there, nothing goes away that won't come back
You're living in a house of cards, and you're blowing down the stack
Chorus:
She sleeps under a rainbow, she won't dream in colour
(She don't dream in colour)
She thinks that her soul is painted grey or black and white
Sleeping under a rainbow she could dream in colour, dream in colour
(She don't dream in colour) tonight
Glass mirror, look in (I know it's hard to see, when the one you free is you)
Sleep walking, high talking
(But the colours aren't real and the things you feel don't last)
You sit there looking at the sunrise, not knowing if the day has come or gone
You're wondering why it turns you off, when it never turns you on
chorus
Picking at the lock on the front door, pulling at the shutters on the windows
But you're living in a house of shadows
(Solo)
Even tho' you're lonely you think it's you, sitting at that table set for one
You're waiting for the guest that never comes
chorus
She could dream in colour, she could
(Sleeping under a rainbow, dream in colour)
(repeats out)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once in history
Imagine the world standing still, waiting,
just imagine,
no movement for that period of time,
but something is happening,
dreaming of things to come.
Once in history
everything becomes one
feeling this dream
as the only ecstasy
genuine, pure, elixir of love
coming forth,
Oh wow,
this is a breathing dream,
energy manifested
in different color.
But of course, this time
the world is covered
in the sweetness of love's oneness.
Now, as you're reading my words
do you feel the energy
remember, it's only a dream
or maybe not,
maybe for just once in history
we are one, completely one
with Love.
Dreams do come true, after all.
Once in History.
You have a dream?
poem by Kasia Fedyk
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Dream In Colour
You wake up to tell me (that youre numb inside, that the feelings all have died)
Youre praying and youre saying (that you do believe, but I dont believe thats true)
Everything has always been there
Nothing goes away that wont come back
Youre living in a house of cards
And youre blowing down the stack
She sleeps under a rainbow
She wont dream in colour
She thinks that her soul is painted
Grey or black or white
Sleeping under a rainbow
She could dream in colour
Dream in colour tonight
Glass mirror, look in (I know its hard to see, when the one you free is you)
Sleep walking, high talking (but the colours arent real and the things you feel dont last)
You sit there looking at the sunrise
Not knowing if the day has come or gone
Wondering why it turns you off
When it never turns you on
She sleeps under a rainbow
She wont dream in colour
She thinks that her soul is painted
Grey or black or white
Sleeping under a rainbow
She could dream in colour
Dream in colour tonight
Picking at the lock on the front door
Pulling at the shutters on the windows
But youre living in a house of shadows
Even though youre lonely you think its you
Sitting at that table set for one
Youre waiting for the guest that never comes
She sleeps under a rainbow
She wont dream in colour
She thinks that her soul is painted
Grey or black or white
Sleeping under a rainbow
She could dream in colour
Dream in colour tonight
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grief Thief Of Time
Grief thief of time crawls off,
The moon-drawn grave, with the seafaring years,
The knave of pain steals off
The sea-halved faith that blew time to his knees,
The old forget the cries,
Lean time on tide and times the wind stood rough,
Call back the castaways
Riding the sea light on a sunken path,
The old forget the grief,
Hack of the cough, the hanging albatross,
Cast back the bone of youth
And salt-eyed stumble bedward where she lies
Who tossed the high tide in a time of stories
And timelessly lies loving with the thief.
Now Jack my fathers let the time-faced crook,
Death flashing from his sleeve,
With swag of bubbles in a seedy sack
Sneak down the stallion grave,
Bull's-eye the outlaw through a eunuch crack
And free the twin-boxed grief,
No silver whistles chase him down the weeks'
Dayed peaks to day to death,
These stolen bubbles have the bites of snakes
And the undead eye-teeth,
No third eye probe into a rainbow's sex
That bridged the human halves,
All shall remain and on the graveward gulf
Shape with my fathers' thieves.
poem by Dylan Thomas
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Just Beauty
Today I want to take a lethal dose
of black lips, confronting the killer on
contract. Time dithers to escort. May be
a cold-blooded murder of a handful of
sick shadows will give a transparent
memory.
Planting a sad kiss on blameless
insomniac, I rub the sweet tenderness
of morning blossom, a work of a faithful
artist, an unnoticed grief (for the sake
of old promise) . Meanwhile the blue moon
splits into thousand splinters.
From the height of insanity flows
the chaste river of history. I defy the
laws of gravity and climb with death
all the time, becoming dark to myself,
finding the shape of light in
beauty of death.
poem by Satish Verma
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I go where moonbeams go
I wake from sleep and hitch a ride
Upon a moonbeam passing by
Where shall I go I can’t decide
no matter how hard I may try.
I am content to simply glide
and go wherever moon beams go.
Dark city streets where shadows hide
the shameful secrets which they know.
Along slate roof tops wet with rain
my faithful moon beam carries me.
Far out to sea and back again
there is so much for me to see.
When morning comes I’m back in bed.
My mother says it was a dream
but I just smile and nod my head.
Tonight I’ll catch a new moon beam.
29-Apr-08
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Drink Drink Sire
Drink drink sire
None other times
Insistent more
No other shadow
But thyself
Moon and stars
Drink drink sire
Thy creed to followers
Lonely hearts
Under the moon
And in the flowers
Drink drink sire
What times other
What seasons other
Spring and stars
And the moon
And song of love
Drink drink sire
To the last drop
Un satiated
More and more
From moon now
To stars now
To milky way
Drink drink sire
To the passion of drink
To meet again in the journey
For Li Po
Islamabad
17/3/2010
poem by Sadiqullah Khan
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I dream..
I dream of floating away on a cloud
I dream of catching a falling star
I dream of my prince charming
I dream of how I'll save him from the dragon
I dream of cows on the moon
And pink grass
I dream of old ladies knitting socks
I dream the twelve Olympians are real
I dream I'll meet them someday
I dream of vast sugar cane fields
I dream of a bed of roses
And how prickly that must be
I dream of firefly friends
I dream of a lighting bug show
I dream of riding a striped horse down the aisle
I dream of hot air balloons
I dream of polar bears
And penguins
I dream of snow
I dream of rain
I dream of summer
I dream of fall
I dream of day
And night
I dream of the moon
I dream of stars
I dream of going to Mars
I dream of how I'll be queen of the Martians
I dream of how I'll love my subjects
And people always said I belonged on another planet
I dream of love
I dream of faith
I dream of hope
I dream of culture
I dream of life
And I dream sweet dreams
poem by Sai Srujana
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Spring (Double Rondelet Triolet)
With a deep touch,
The red poppy awakes the grass.
With a deep touch,
Red wants green's vibration so much,
The sun awakes the sky's watch glass.
The sky vibrates like a string bass,
With a deep touch.
The red flowers bloom in the Spring
When the time of the green grass comes.
The sky vibrates like a bass string.
The red flowers bloom in the Spring.
I see the nature's purest swing.
The wind searches his bongo drums,
The red flowers bloom in the Spring
When the time of the green grass comes.
I see His love
Like a white lily among thorns.
I see His love
Like in clefts of the rock, a dove.
When red flower its grass adorns
And her dead Winter, Spring mourns,
I see His love.
Shadows are inlaid in color
When red poppy awakes the grass.
When the land is multicolor,
Shadows are inlaid in color.
When the cuckoo is a caller,
The sun awakes the sky's watch glass.
Shadows are inlaid in color
When red poppy awakes the grass.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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Enormous and Vibrant Temple
I want to bury myself away in an enormous and vibrant temple
I say death, and all the flowers come in
And flowers don't feel anymore
I am free of my conscious soul
I was half - death made me whole
Illogical sleeping habits never appealed to me
I have always wondered - I am dead and I am free
Sleeping is not what death is about
It's not what breath is about
I'm feeling like a lonely lover,
Who won't wait until its over
Death just hase to be nice
Pink, plausible virtues gather around me to celebrate my death
I need to be silent, I need to be alone
And death is the cradle - although made of stone
poem by Ankita Sharma
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Rainbows' End
They found him at the end of his Rainbow;
face down.
Tracking from the beginning
there were swatches of childhood dreaming,
motivating battles and struggles in the seams and creases,
failures and successes revealed in tea leaves;
sometimes smiles, sometimes grief;
but always the Rainbow Ride and Dream.
As he drew closer to it's end
the more he began to count coins in his pot of gold
soon to be where
all the world would be happiness paved;
at the terminus point;
the end
where lived the Rainbow Dream;
all of Efforts Reward enshrined there.
But the happenstance was
as he came to his
Rainbow's end-
feet planted
firmly to receive-
what a life's work
had striven for
he found there
only another trail
which re-wound
back to his starting point;
back to him.
Rainbow's end with just him
was no dream, because once
there he realized that the paths
he took also made him unworthy
of Rainbow dreams.
So startling this was to him
his heart failed
because he realized
at Rainbow's end
there could be no Rainbow
with just him
at its end.
He realized that he was not his own dream.
'I, ' he said in the expiring
'was not worth the trip
nor worthy of reaching its end.'
So ironic is
the discovery that
we are often unworthy
at Rainbow end
because our paths there tainted the goal.
Sad lrony is we must be the Rainbow we seek
otherwise in getting there
we arrive hollowed out
and empty;
because Rainbows
are not destinations
but the process
we use to become complete
human beings.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Dead Library
There they go, bearing him in tears;
another gift for termites and earthworms,
another place in history foregone.
Just humus to the soil for all his toil.
Had I known, the poor fellow cried,
a break from pursuit of wealth and health
I would have taken to make felt
my Name in the pages of history.
Jets, cars and chariots all shall fade.
Castles, plantations all shall be obscured
with time's demise but history salutes
those who march on it in inky lines.
They that add no lines to the living
library get dead alongside their texts.
Selfishly, they read and saw nothing to write.
Read by none, their texts are in the Dead Library.
Mazi Ikechukwu Bismarck Oji
18th June,2010
poem by Ike Bismarck Oji
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An Invitation.
She invited Joey
to her apartment
on the second floor
and as she opened the door
her dog came
barking along the hall
Shut up Bonaparte
she said
Go away
and the mutt walked back
with its tail
between its legs
to its basket
under the table
and she ushered Joey in
and closed the door behind her
and said
What would you like to drink?
tea coffee coke beer?
Coke will be fine
he said
and she told him
to go sit in the lounge
and once he sat down
he looked around the room
and on the small table
by the sofa where he sat
was a photograph of her
and her husband
taken on their wedding day
she dressed in white
and smiling
and he in a black suit
like a hit man
in a mobster movie
and she came in
with his coke
and set it on the table
by the sofa
and then went out again
swaying her behind
which made him smile
then she was back
with a tall glass
of white wine
and she set it down
on the table beside him
and sat down
and began talking
about the night
he had met her
and her husband
in the bar in town
and how she had invited
him over to meet her husband
and he had bought them
both a drink
and while her husband
talked to his friend
she had flirted with him
and made him laugh
and how after that
they'd all meet
on Friday evenings
in the same bar
and her husband
had invited him
to their place
to play chess
and he remembered
how he used to play chess
holding off letting
her husband win
so he could stay longer
and see her more often
and then she leaned over
to get her drink
and she put one hand
on his thigh
and reached over
for her wine
and he smelt her scent
and the brush of her hair
as she leaned over him
and having her glass
she leaned back
her hand still resting
on his thigh
and that look of mischief
burning in her eye.
poem by Terry Collett
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Wilted Rose As A Bookmark
Desideratum*—plucked young as an oblation
of the love sick hermit, ,
Billet-doux *forgotten, why resurrect me in a book raving wolf &false prophet,
to venerate at leisure? , a life in bracket, the reluctant goddess
Then cast away to shadow knife in the cellar?
Or a worse fate of utter neglect in Hades.?
Feeding her cold, satisfied distrust,
Condemning a future bound to its secrets,
When in denial, looked me over,
just a banal confirmation or an error fixed in doubt.?
Surrendering each page to the bookmark,
given an adrenalin wash for the trouble,
Like a prop used to measure the mistakes of the past
Or a fruitful future to girdle.
The Gods are hard to please, give him the benefit of doubt,
No one’s innocent all have blighted the rose!
Petals compete to be wisps,
camouflage a dehydrated existence,
Delicate lips frozen in time with its taunting freshness,
left forgotten immortalized between the pages,
of a lost moment a reminiscent, //
Each of my curl fathered a rainbow
& stole hues from Providence,
Have felt the sun on my back, been on pollen parole
& have drunk a few dews, //
Have smelt the grass—then, not even
disgust could have woken me up
Like a wooden-legged pirate,
pages held me within their grip.//
Under the wings of bird squadrons & the prairie night
I have been touched by the stars,
Danced with the whine of the wind, the sound of the surf,
Here- I bear the scars.//
A conclusion not yet reached, between the
unrelinquished affair & unread pages
Oh! How could you place this scented
caress on destiny’s cheek-an anomaly in a world so decrepit,
Still warm with the heat of its emptied treasures,
early morning hiatus.//
Shriveling to cover my bare nakedness,
stripped of my former glory & feat,
Your frailty deceptive, lasting
Longer than the memory I bequeath.
Flung across a torrid courtship, dragged &bumped
Yet you stand, contorted, disfigured but so firm &tough
Than contest, even the wildest alley cat,
would have surrendered a freshly caught rat.//
Here you are -Crushed, Crumpled, Dried, Wilted
Ready to spring back to life with your old nerve and dread!
Here I am, maligned, crushed, crumpled,
, God! Must shake myself off this reverie I led!
Just leave me Confirmed or Dead! !
x-x-x
Notes: *Desideratum=object of desire
*Billet -doux=a love letter
@ Seema.Joglekar.13 March-2009
#On Discovering a Wilted Rose in a Library Book.
poem by Seema joglekar
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Pink Clouds Never Rain
I have never see a pink cloud rain before.
I have only seen a magenta bolt of lightening try to strike my heart, and
Aqua tears trickling from my dazzled misty eyes, down my
Flushed and lonesome cheek, though
I have never see a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have seen spotted purple snakes crawling up my bedroom walls, and
Transparent bubbles filled with dreams floating before my very eyes, though,
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, though
I have seen a reddish sun cast shadows down upon a tortuous, rippling river;
I have seen tears cascading down a sloping hill, and
Gulls flapping their gentle, feathered wings atop some cragged cliffs, although
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, although
I have heard eerie and commanding thoughts and voices
That no one else could hear.
I have had disturbing, stabbing thoughts that have injured me inside, though
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, although
I have slid down an icy mountainside on a very sunny night.
I have wept a sea of deep blue and purple tears, though
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before.
I have never heard thunder clap behind a rosy cloud, or seen
Tears fall from heaven or have heard angels singing.
I have had morbid thoughts of loss, death and suicide,
While thunder clapped, and
These pink clouds could not rain.
Perhaps someday I shall see a pink cloud rain upon a
Magnificent world, which I have created for myself,
Where tall green and golden reeds are surrounded by swirling water pools, and
A hallucinogenic sun sets behind high and mighty mountains-
And there, people would be trustworthy and true to heart.
No, I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, although,
I have seen almost everything there is to see-
Some good sights and some bad-
I have heard some screaming voices echo in my mind, although,
Some quiet ones as well.
I have seen some orange and, pinkish sunsets, and mirages in
The fortress of my own mind, however-
I have never seen a pink cloud rain before, and
I have never seen a pink cloud weep before….
Claudia Krizay
poem by Claudia Krizay
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