When You Peel the Moon
Turgid freedom of nondescript
energy moves on the
secret circuits of nude gods.
Thy body politic breaks into splinters of million thoughts.
When the dusty winds
settle on our faces, it is a holy bath.
The neutral sky perceives it,
lapses into silence.
Poor vision of builders,
carries an abstract frame for the silver screen.
We peer in dark
to find the blasts,
culture of giant legs was the essence of truth
descends deep in crevices.
The technique brings the broken images.
In your mind lies the whole history of a tree.
You don’t remember.
When you peel the moon,
your tongue falters.
Of several centuries
the grief stricken bird recites a poem.
Come beside me,
I will tell you the name.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Tongue Bath
Yeah, (ohhh), we got the hood rats in the house right
(Would you like a tongue bath babe)
They say they like tongue bath (from the back)
So, uh, we went and got Methron
But of course, it's the Ying-Yang Twins
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
Anyway you want it, I'm with it
I just wanna get up in it
(You want a tongue bath, you need a tongue bath)
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
A tongue bath, from the back
Oh yes, that's the way I like it
(You want a tongue bath, you need a tongue bath)
Forget about that Summer we stretched straight thuggin it up
In the tongue bath world we was loving it up
I've been told by the eye we were holding each other
To the room, sexual, of the Isley Brothers
Sippin' Alazez and Hennessee, straight thug passion
Licking nipples, got you gigglin', so you started to laugh
And now it's getting so erotic baby
All of a sudden so I'm kissing on your body baby
Admit it babb
See baby a tongue bath is what I like
Lick me up, lick me down, curve my appetite
Let me open up my legs, show me what you got
The way you licking on my body's got me really hot
And I'm loving the way you lick me though
Do it little daddy, let your tongue take control
You got me shaking like hell when you're licking my toes
From the top to the bottom, make your tongue roll
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
Anyway you want it, I'm with it
I just wanna get up in it
(You want a tongue bath, you need a tongue bath)
Let me see you freak your body
I won't stop until you get enough
A tongue bath, from the back
Oh yes, that'
song performed by by Ying Yang Twins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Verwoerd is Black
This poem is pregnant
with the black bloodshed of 1976.
This poem is constipated
with slavery of the poor.
This poem is the titanic of people’s hopes
sinking in the freezing ocean of democracy.
This poem is the enemy of the state,
‘cause, this poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.
This poem is a hook that fishes
odd deeds buried behind black faces.
This poem is a mirror
that reflects odd unknown images
of stinking rich black men.
This poem is the voice of the angry dead.
This poem is a hammer to nail
in the brain of greedy politicians.
This poem is a database
of all black leaders.
This poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.
This poem is for you
black man who spits
at the sight of a white man.
This poem is for you
white man who owns a savaged land
full of secret mass graves.
This poem is for you
black and white who hug and kiss
to please Madiba.
This poem is for you
the poor, who sing:
freedom has finally come.
This poem is for you, who know no truth,
‘cause, this poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.
This poem is for you
my brother & sister who have lost taste
of your mother-tongue
in the multiracial Model C schools.
This poem is for you
black mama, who has configured her black being
‘cause black is barbaric.
This poem is the anger of hunger.
This poem is for the unemployed voters
who find solace in booze, sex & crime.
This poem bears testimony.
Don’t you know?
Verwoerd is black.
poem by Mpho Ramaano
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Alone In The Heat
The insult to sober conviction
unsettles the saints.
Give me your hand,
to solve this problem.
An abstract idea joins
the postures of different conflicts,
the worship of crumpled illusions.
After great sufferings
only proverbs give a soothing effect.
Images blur, misspent energy
distorts the palisade of love.
Perhaps history repeats itself.
Moon cries at midnight
looking beneath the soft clouds,
to follow eternity.
Past & present are losers.
The trustworthy future
does not hold any promise.
Again questioning brings
the numbness on surface.
The agony of realization,
moves away from just mistakes.
It is hard to smash
the strong beliefs.
A self-denial brings
the death of truth.
I am alone in the heat
of an argument, pathless, rising, sinking.
poem by Satish Verma
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Frame
Frame
I could frame my
mind to what my
thoughts become,
"words spoken"
or I could frame the
night to think my
agony is gone.
I can frame almost
anything I quess,
from a heart in grief
looking for some relief,
the mailman,
the milkman,
and everything
that passes by,
A kitten at my doorstep,
is funny isn't it?
you can frame your
way through a
dragons throat.
Anything you want,
even your heart,
your truth your lies and
even the clear skies.
The hymns I sing,
my eyelids to fall asleep,
an ability not yet control.
Everything I long for
has not yet pass through,
so I keep framing
the truth the lies and all
I can think of.
But framing is not my
escape is just a lie
I keep telling myself,
and I can keep doing
it for eons.
But not yet complete,
for I can't frame my
eyes of what I see.
©ElenaToledo2009
poem by Elenushka Toledo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Magic Wishing tree
They peered through toy kaleidoscopes and murmured thoughts I shan’t relate for you see…
This dark secret is just for you and me. For you see this diversity is something we cant not be. For you see this is something that is going to stay locked away in our magic wishing tree.
This is something just for you and me this is our magic wishing tree where you wish anything away. Where your thoughts and feelings just take away to everything weird in a funny kind of way.
So you see this wishing tree is not like any other tree when you wished for something everything you wanted was just there everyday next to the magic wishing tree.
This tree is like any other this tree could be your brother!
So peer through our toy kaleidoscope and tell use what you see but remember say it in a murmured voice so no one else can hear you and me.
poem by Aleesha Henry
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An Indestructible Tree.
Rugged desert_
an unbriddled melancholy wind blows
Scattering sparks of fire,
There is no tree in Shatil Arab,
only the simoom’s voice moans all around.
In the palace of the Sheikh, though,
a few khayyamesque gardens exist
on whose blue carpets you’ll find
the finest wine of the world
and an enamoured saki with her lovely eyes.
Oblivious of his tent and the far away horizon’s call
the intrepid Bedouin has taken refuge
in the soft white abode of sex
in the Sheikh’s khayyamesque gardens.
Outside all trees have been singed by fire,
not even a cactus grows
in the barren land.
And yet an indestructible tree stands there
in the bronze-hot red soil of burning Palestine,
a miracle-tree with soft and green and serene
and large leaves.
All the good winds of the world
blow on that tree,
all the birds of the world sing there
with the tune of the seven seas on their lips.
In the murmuring leaves of this tree
only one tune plays
only one symphony,
only one sacred hymn,
only the undying joy
of men gathered on a temporary sojourn
expressed in their cry;
Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!
Because of this the dark hand of the demon
rises from the setting sun
bent on destroying that tree.
They wont let a single tree live
in the third world.
And so, the arrogant demon blasts
the heart of this tree into shreds.
Missile after missile from their F16 military planes
hit the trunk of this tree
tearing it asunder,
and yet this tree does not die.
Hundreds and hundreds of Palestinians
pour on it their holy and fertile blood
in a bid to keep it alive.
The demon’s dark hands turn red
with the blood of the heroic martyrs.
Shunts of condemnation fill the air.
And their angry planes return to camp
after the onslaught is over.
But the indestructible tree still stands
and keep awake.
Breathing in the unlimited cool breeze of the sea
the tender young leaves of the indestructible tree
recites in silence the sacred incantation
of Freedom.
This indestructible tree will not die, never ever.
This indestructible tree cannot die.
-
poem by Shafiqul Islam
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Leonardo
The one on portrait hanging on the wall
Perhaps the best that history can recall
He lived and worked five hundred years ago
And still the legend of Leonardo grow.
A Poet, a Scientist and an Engineer
An Inventor and an Artist without peer
From near poverty to fame at a time
When to be poor was looked on as a crime.
Leonardo the greatest son of Italy
Opened the gate to modern technology
No stranger to the book of history
In five hundred years no greater one than he.
Five centuries back he said that man would fly
And the legend live his fame will never die
His dusty portrait in old frame hang on wall
Perhaps the best that history can recall.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Give The Sound
i have experienced
freedom in the wings of the bird
i taste air
it is bland
i ate space
it is empty
i have experienced doing
anything
explored what i have
not explored
i have been there
there is nothing
i say i have everything
if you wouldn't mind
i shall tell the truth
there is nothing there
nothing satisfies the tongue
nothing fills the mind
nothing is forever intimate
with this body
nothing is so intertwined
with the soul
that when it breaks away
i am still intact
nothing is broken
nothing is created
what is this soul?
what is it that always longs for
satiation?
there is this empty
unlimited space
i give a sound
it has never since then returned to me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poem Of Syntax
A poet and his bird, his dog, his cat and his tree
A poet and the bird in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree
A poet and his dog in the tree and the wind and the cloud
The bird in the tree, the dog in the tree, the cat in the tree,
The bird in the tree, the dog on the tree, the cat under the tree,
The bird on the tree, the bird in a tree, a bird in a tree, a bird in the tree,
And the wind and the cloud and the poet and his dog and his cat and the tree
The dog chases the cat the cat chases the bird
And they all arrive in that tree
Where the poet is sitting under that tree
The poet takes the dog and the cat was envious
And the bird looks at them in silence
The silence looks at the poet in the eye
Of the cat and the bird flies away
The poet and the dog is the poem of friendship
The cat and the dog is the poem of the endless natural quarrels
And the bird that flies away against the cat and the dog and the poet and the tree
And flies against the wind that the bird is now fighting
And the clouds that seem so blue and blue
The bird that actually flies away
Is actually me
I was not the poet with the dog
I am not the tree I am not the wind I am not the cloud I am not the poet there who had a dog as friend and I was not the quarrelsome thing from the blue and out of the blue
I am the bird with wings and I always fly away to places
Against the wind to places where I can be as always be the bird with wings in silence
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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What He Did
as law professor teaching civil and political law
he did not tell his students that he writes poems during some
breaks of their studies.
as the students hurdle a legal problem in marriage
he preoccupies himself with some images: an old weary man
carrying an ax, debarking a tree without leaves.
it can carry him far away to some hills in his mind.
clouds and storms dock on his forehead.
he shakes his head, and goes back to the legal words
right on the page of his book. Finds himself again, strong willed.
Astute. Wise. Objective. Sharp.
A student raises his hand and recites a solution the problem.
He listens and claps his hands.
The class is dismissed and he is left alone in the room
It is 8: 45 in the evening.
Images come again. The tree is finally cut. The barks turn into paper.
He knows now the cause of the decay. Some termites.
The old man is dead. Cut by the ax. The ax is gone.
Who did it? Why?
These are his mind games.
He opens the door of the car and begins to drive himself back home.
He has a poem to write again.
It is about that old man who died beside a tree that he debarked.
It is not more of the ax or termites.
It is the tree. A tree without leaves.
A very lonely tree which is cut.
He is happy now.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Healing
My pain is deep, so deep no water on earth compares
no mountain can bear my weight of grief I carry
no volcano can erupt as my heart
can from its deepest despair
no stars can blind like that from the light of death
no tree I climb will take me to heaven's gate to you
no prayer will bring you back to my side again
no miracle can be asked for, but understanding
no loss is greater than the loss of a child
but within my silence I find my sight
serenity and strength to peel back the layers of grief
to heal my burning body of heartache
and turn my darkened world to a brighter one.
poem by Alex Sarich
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Kristallnacht
In the dead of night
when the moon was high
and crystals were energized
from natures moon,
energy to give life.
But this energy was dark and black,
and midnights' hidden faces,
showing shameful deeds.
Masked by moonlight.
Secret evil always hides its face,
and dark, unsigned letters,
whispered conversations, balaclava.
And breaking glass with running steps.
Truth will always face the Sun,
and not need back lane path,
like thieves.
But call at front in day.
Shame upon you crystal sinners,
in your shame filled deeds
of darkness, empty hollows echo,
a dead tree, rotten bark.
poem by Bernard Kennedy
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The Modality of Evil
Hey, freedom, come back!
Poor freedom turns black.
Oh, freedom! Dear freedom! is under attack.
I wish just this once I could take fear away.
I hope we'll soon see a more beautiful day.
Sensing a sick, saccharine despair,
I breathe in nothing but dusty, dead air.
Why am I crying? I choose to be alone.
This shroud of banality is never gone.
I do not consent to this hypocrisy.
But I guess I'll accept what I blindly see.
This masochistic culture breeds our defeat.
With loathing and tears, we just stare at our feet.
Inside their greed asylum, they wait:
Planning escape before it's too late.
Why do they quash any pure ideation?
Why do they keep destroying this foundation,
That was broken, that we rebuild every time?
No cause is given when one probes through their lies.
Why do we doubt any depraved things they've done?
Lost lives lay scattered, and it's only begun.
Seems it's our job to put it back right.
But what can be done without a fight?
Dear freedom, come back!
Poor freedom's turned black.
Oh, freedom! Our freedom! is under attack.
poem by Shalyn Stachmus
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IF you remember every word in this book, your memory will have recorded about two million pieces of information: the order in your brain will have increased by about two million units. However, while you have been reading the book, you will have converted at least a thousand calories of ordered energy, in the form of food, into disordered energy, in the form of heat that you lose to the air around you by convection and sweat. This will increase the disorder of the universe by about twenty million million million million units - or about ten million million million times the increase in order in your brain - and that's if you remember everything in this book.
Stephen Hawking in A Brief History of Time
Submitted by Catalin Popescu
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A Night Poem
Last night
Staccato stride
Of silent thoughts
That occupied the vacant mind at sleep
Threw me into a strange state
Thoughts I couldn’t identify
Kept hitting at the fluid brain-walls
Like small pebbles hurled by
A little boy into a stagnant puddle just like that
Each ripple catapulted me into
An indescribable state of nightmare
At some corner of the blank space
A faceless you stood there
Watching me break into a cold sweat
And running and running in vain
I stood there vulnerable and fixed
In spite of my running endlessly…
Through the abstract images
Of rocky cliffs, tree-tops, curling seas
Of bizarre faces, broken stairways
That flashed on the dark canvass
Echoed the two letters of your name…
06aug2010
03.22hrs
poem by Indira Babbellapati
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Someone In My Way
My sweet lovely Someone
You tell me I don't need a reason
Not silver or gold
Just wake up in your dream and go
You make it so easy
I just say okay
And the next thing I know
I'm going in your way
I just say I love you
Everyday
I can't wait to see you
So I'm going in your way
Deep in deepest down in my soul
the thoughts out in my mind
To the tips of my legs
I'm going in your way
I tell the whole world
I'm going your way
It's not a secret mission
I'm going your way
I could be coming or for your love
I could be going but, for your love
As long as I'm wondering
I'm going in your way
I just say I love you
Everyday
I can't wait to see you
So I'm going your way
Deep down in my soul
the thoughts in my mind
To the tips of my legs
I'm going your way
poem by Khushi throne
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Evolution
For cloning of small gods
you took out the kidneys, lungs
and stomach, from slain truth’s
body. My bête noire, the lies.
Do you smell the stink? You make
yourself, you are not your id.
The urge to take a flight was very strong.
Groins aching for the heroic jump.
Legs amputated, the tragedy, swims
like a fossil truth in the sea, under
the layers of centuries.
Man has not changed, cheated of the death.
poem by Satish Verma
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Introspection
If you go deep
Into the heart
What do you find there?
Fear, fear,
Fear of the jaws of the rock,
Fear of the teeth and splinters of iron that tear
Flesh from the bone, and the moist
Blood, running unfelt
From the wound, and the hand
Suddenly moist and red.
If you go deep
Into the heart
What do you find?
Grief, grief,
Grief for the life unlived,
For the loves unloved,
For the child never to be born,
Th'unbidden anguish, when the fair moon
Rises over still summer seas, and the pain
Of sunlight scattered in vain on spring grass.
If you go deeper
Into the heart
What do you find there?
Death, death,
Death tht lets all go by,
Lets the blood flow from the wound,
Lets the night pass,
Endures the day with indifference, knowing that all must end.
Sorrow is not forever, ad sense
Endures no extremities,
Death is the last Secret implicit within you, the hidden, the deepest
Knowledge of all you will ever unfold
In this body of earth.
poem by Kathleen Jessie Raine
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The Truth Within
The Violin in his hand, His mind is at a far
The tears held within: the winds resemble his sorrows
The strength in his voice, the pain in his soul
Why hold it all when the truth lies in your soul
The smiley face fades like the watery paint
The thought hit him like a dream in broad daylight
Patient was his virtue, but sorrow was to overcome
Why hold it all when the truth lies in your soul
His silence got the best of him
Now his pain cant be faded by her words
He would rather hold her than leave her,
His words wont change her mind
Why hold it all when the truth lies in your soul
She was a treasure worth keeping
but the wrong treasure for him 'she once said
Healing the truth, Healing the wounds
Regret is unbearable, Time is at its essence
Why hold it all when the truth lies in your soul
Sometimes the truth makes us walk away without a word
Sometimes it avoids us hurting the treasures in our lives
The best he hopes times forgives him
But it never does it reminds him the constant mistakes of his silence.
poem by Sylviah Salima
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This Is No Horror Fairy Tale Poem
This is no fairytale poem this is the reality
Of the twenty first century,
The era of religious political minds gone mad
Preying on the young manipulating robbing their souls
As,
Graveyard eyelids close and open over compassionless eyes,
The young female drone obsessed with promised martyrdom
Moves into the centre of the busy market place.
Her young slim body is now swollen to an obese size
With the aid of dynamite strapped to her body
Hidden under her dark clothing of lies,
Make no mistake here moves a killer
A mini 911 creature a black plague,
A killer of women and children all innocent souls
Where the Hell is the route of this insanity
Is it the Aztecs digging hearts out for the sun God?
The Romans digging roads in other people’s back yards?
Gengus Khan preaching his beheading technique?
Each side of the many faces of man
Pointing the trigger finger at each other,
Each with the mythical coat of divine blessing
From their own misconstrued religion.
I don’t know the answer but I do know
When the young bomber blew herself up
In the market with 45 other poor souls
I do know the authorities put her head in a bucket.
poem by Ken e Hall
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