Fear of Strangers
Seething cauldrons seethe from fanned embers of tyrants
Hunger and Pain smoke out peasants from their hamlets
Bubbling violence here and there chafing the feet to flight;
Barbed walls of sovereignty vaulted with poles of tenacity
To a mecca built on blood and agony over and over again.
Home away in a land paved with the wisdom from suffering
...and then, an ill wind:
Prejudice swept over quiet plains with heart-rending wails
Rolling down fire-balls of envy from mountains of pride:
Already wounded spirits stabbed now with phobic daggers
As blistered feet from walks from horror hurry from terror.
poem by Chukuemeka Akpe
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Related quotes
Wherever These Feet May Roam.....
be that land so far so lost,
where freedom first touched these lips.
where the taint of love
scorched heart and soul,
where the path met by howl and want.
where the song found words,
and the night named stars,
where moonlight be the holy drink.
where the rebel rose courted moss and stone,
where the fire was lit by true bent hope.
where the wind undressed,
and the mountains wept,
and the sea called me home.
where the light was forged from human sweat,
as angels danced barefoot by night.
where the promise of dawn be more than enough,
and the spirit walked through walls!
be that land my home my heart's desire,
wherever these feet may roam!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Sestina: War
There is nothing like war
But a fire
Plaguing the land
Spreading rapidly
Hurting those who cant prevent pain
Destroying those who are innocent
The destruction of fire
Guns spraying bullets rapidly
Blood seeping into the land
Not only death, but torture and pain
Killing those who are innocent
All for the cause of war
A marsh of green land
Destroyed by red fire
Turning a once plushed land to char, rapidly
And bringing pain to the innocent
To further on the war
For a point to cause national pain
News spreading rapidly
Spreading across to many in a land
About the death of which is war
Bringing to good hearts, pain
And of the upcoming apocalyptic fire
Bringing terror to the innocent
Families who can’t avoid the war
Getting wiped out rapidly
Through screams and pain
From the soldiers of hells fire
Leaving the innocent
Six feet under the land
Nations defeated rapidly
Leaving once great nationed lands
Charred by evils fire
Wiping out the innocent
Causing people and economic pain
All for a man made war
But what good comes out of war?
Though it causes pain
In the long run, you’ve freed the innocent
poem by John McAdam
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Gangrene
So often in the mid of night
I wake me in my bed
With utter panic of affright
To find my feet are dead;
And pace the floor to easy my pain
And make them live again.
The folks at home are so discreet;
They see me walk and walk
To keep the blood-flow in my feet,
And though they never talk
I've heard them whisper: 'Mother may
Have them cut off some day.'
Cut off my feet! I'd rather die . . .
And yet the years of pain,
When in the darkness I will lie
And pray to God in vain,
Thinking in agony: Oh why
Can doctors not annul our breath
In honourable death?
poem by Robert William Service
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The Skylark's Message
SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,
And your journey may be long;
20
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.
I would that ye heard it always,
25
That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely
In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset
For the labouring hands and feet,
30
And a silence has fallen for ever
On the noise and the dust of the street.
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Tumbleweed
Mountains with their snow-white tops
stare down at the plains below
watching the tumbleweeds roll
where the wind does blow.
They watch the dust trails
they leave behind
on their wind swept quest
rolling on to find a place to rest.
17 January 2008
poem by David Harris
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A Wind Of Silence Is A Wind Of Violence
The wind of silence has become a wind of violence
Guns for war, guns for ones own protection
For some satisfaction, for others lack of affection
Children playing Russian roulette with their feet
Its not even safe anymore walking in the streets
The wind of silence is a wind of violence
Our future will be a reflection
Of our own segregation of the old generation
Lonely hearts lost in desperation
Not one or two, but a whole civilization
The wind of silence has become a wind of violence
The present, the future or the past. What would you choose?
Or shall I say: What have we to lose?
If we want our children to be happy and proud,
Then we have to shout and shout out loud:
Mouth to mouth, throw the dice
But hurry and don't think twice
It's only your voice you have to sacrifice
There is a wind of violence
Let's blow away the wind of silence
poem by Elisabeth Karlberg
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SignS
Crystal balls, my shadow calls, noone for the listen - In blood i walk, only the demons which shades me as a tree, talks - Straight through the bends, my mind is driven, no forgiveness, nothing taken, nothing given - Bleeding wrists, my heart in pain, my soul in the mist, my violence rains - Blistered lips, lost to addiction, the gun tells me the time - No way out, i see the lights, the road to hell, reads the signs
poem by Unic Cjonr
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The Unseen City
Not far away does that bright city stand,
'Tis but the mist o'er its dividing stream,
That wraps the glory of its glitt'ring strand,
Its radiant skies, and mountains silvery gleam;
Oh, often in the blindness of our fate
We wander very near the city's gate.
We love that unseen city, and we yearn
Ever within our earthly homes to see
Its golden towers, that in the sunset burn,
Its white walls rising from the quiet sea;
Its mansions gleaming with immortal glow,
Filled with the treasure lost to us below.
Yes, dear ones that we loved and lost are there;
Bright in that fair clime beam those sweet eyes now;
Fanned by its soft breeze floats the shining hair,
Hair we have smoothed back from the gentlest brow;
Softest white hands we kissed and clasped in ours
Slipped from our grasp, lured by its glowing flowers.
Fairer it seems, its velvet walks were sweet,
Dearer its quiet streets, with gold paved o'er,
Since o'er them lightly fall the little feet--
The light feet bounding through our homes no more;
Oh, heart's dear music, tearfully missed,
That city's filled with melody like this.
It is not far away; down from its arches roll
Anthems too sacred for the outward ear,
Pouring their haunting sweetness on the soul;
Oh, how our waiting spirits thrill to hear,
In listening to the low bewildering strain,
Voices they said we should not hear again.
Oh, dear to us that city. He is there,
He whom unseen we love; no need of light;
His tender eyes illume the crystal air
Where His beloved walk in vesture white,
What though on earth they wandered, poor, distressed,
And saw through tears His glory, now they rest.
Oh, that fair city, shining o'er the tide,
Thither we journey through the storm and night;
But soon shall we adown its still bay glide,
Soon will the city's gate gleam on our sight,
There with our own forever shall we be,
In that fair city rising from the sea.
poem by Marietta Holley
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The Army Surgeon
Over that breathing waste of friends and foes,
The wounded and the dying, hour by hour,-
In will a thousand, yet but one in power,-
He labours thro' the red and groaning day.
The fearful moorland where the myriads lay
Moved as a moving field of mangled worms.
And as a raw brood, orphaned in the storms,
Thrust up their heads if the wind bend a spray
Above them, but when the bare branch performs
No sweet parental office, sink away
With hopeless chirp of woe, so as he goes
Around his feet in clamorous agony
They rise and fall; and all the seething plain
Bubbles a cauldron vast of many-coloured pain.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
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The Hanging Tree....
i took an axe
and cut down the hanging tree...
every blow a blow for
human decency, equality, and freedom.
and i sawed it up into logs,
and built a fire with them.
into the fire i threw
prejudice, hatred, greed, and apathy.
i watched it burn till
nohing was left but the
crackling of the embers...
even the wind grew still in prayer!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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A Voice On The Wind
I
She walks with the wind on the windy height
When the rocks are loud and the waves are white,
And all night long she calls through the night,
'O my children, come home!'
Her bleak gown, torn as a tattered cloud,
Tosses around her like a shroud,
While over the deep her voice rings loud,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
II
Who is she who wanders alone,
When the wind drives sheer and the rain is blown?
Who walks all night and makes her moan,
'O my children, come home!'
Whose face is raised to the blinding gale;
Whose hair blows black and whose eyes are pale,
While over the world goes by her wail,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
III
She walks with the wind in the windy wood;
The dark rain drips from her hair and hood,
And her cry sobs by, like a ghost pursued,
'O my children, come home!'
Where the trees loom gaunt and the rocks stretch drear,
The owl and the fox crouch back with fear,
As wild through the wood her voice they hear,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
IV
Who is she who shudders by
When the boughs blow bare and the dead leaves fly?
Who walks all night with her wailing cry,
'O my children, come home!'
Who, strange of look, and wild of tongue,
With wan feet wounded and hands wild-wrung,
Sweeps on and on with her cry, far-flung,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
V
'Tis the Spirit of Autumn, no man sees,
The mother of Death and of Mysteries,
Who cries on the wind all night to these,
'O my children, come home!'
The Spirit of Autumn, pierced with pain,
Calling her children home again,
Death and Dreams, through ruin and rain,-
'O my children, come home, come home!
O my children, come home!'
poem by Madison Julius Cawein
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Goin Home
(words & music by byers)
This proud wild land where the wind blows free
Has always been a part of me
Its in my blood, I just cant get it out
For a hundred miles a man can see
And be about as wild as he wants to be
If he feels like shouting all hes gotta do is shout
Where the purple mountains reach up high
And look like theyre gonna touch the sky
Where the canyon walls have stood for a million years
Where the days are hot, the nights are cold
The desert sand looks just like gold
These trails were carved in sweat and blood and tears
Where the painted desert as you pass by
Looks like a rainbow in the sky
The cactus blooms in the early morning sun
Where the nightwings sing and eagles fly
The clouds paint pictures in the sky
The coyotes howl tells you when the day is done
Im coming home, this time Im gonna stay
Im coming home and I aint never goin away
My feet are itching to get back home
Ive had the desert fever since Ive been gone
I need some loving so bad that I cant see
When a woman looks a man in the eye
You know it takes a man to satisfy
Thinking about them girls is killing me
Im going home, going home
Going home, Im going home
Going home, going home
Going home
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Agony
Ever wonder how He felt?
Praying in the garden
His students asleep
Could not watch for an hour
He knew He had to die
Even if it's just for me
He would be scourged
He would sweat blood
Even if it's just for me
Agony!
There He was, fixed
Nails in hands and feet
For a moment
Abandoned by God
Agony!
They pierced Him
Blood and water gushed
Mom at His feet
Brothers vanquished
Head bowed
Breathed His last
How He felt?
Think you have it hard?
Think about Him
Agony!
He was wrapped
Buried and left
Thought it was the end?
Not so fast!
Three days later
He got up
Just like that
Now He reigns victorious
Today knees bow
Eyes close
Agony?
poem by Buxton Shippy
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Take Me
I pull my boots off, throw my weapons on the floor
Cry my eyes out, in my private little war
Well it seems Ive been a soldier
Heaven knows Ive been no saint
In my camouflage and armor, cold heart and grease paint
To you this has no meaning the armistice laid down
The armies are all quiet and the guns dont make a sound
cause you melted the steel walls, tore down the barbed wire
Filled in the trenches, demanded a cease fire
And now youre leaving, theres nothing I can do
I want you to know youre gonna take me with you
Well now three on a match is suicide in the foxhole of my mind
And way off in the distance the air raid sirens whine
And they sing your song of rescue to my tattered worn out shell
You drag me to your safety from this my front line hell
cause you melted the steel walls, tore down the barbed wire
Filled in the trenches, demanded a cease fire
And now youre leaving, theres nothing I can do
I want you to know youre gonna take me with you
The blood that was spilled in the heartache before
Left road maps of scars that I never could ignore
cause you melted the steel walls, tore down the barbed wire
Filled in the trenches, demanded a cease fire
And now youre leaving, theres nothing I can do
I want you to know youre gonna take me with you
song performed by by Edwin McCain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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It is women who bear the race in bloody agony. Suffering is a kind of horror. Blood is a kind of horror. Women are born with horror in their very bloodstream. It is a biological thing.
quote by Bela Lugosi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Working Class
hard calloused old hands,
back bent with time and work.
feet beaten and worn,
old tired eyes that still twinkle.
i love the working class.
am more at home
with truckers, farmers,
and factory workers,
than politicians and priests.
the lives built brick by brick,
silent years of sacrifice.
hard lines of faith and worry,
and moments of gentle caring.
the hand extended,
the heart that's honest.
the love of passion,
and blowing off steam.
the cook pot, and the table,
set for whoever walks through the door.
neighbor standing behind neighbor,
the saturday night fire,
and the sunday prayer.
i love the working class...
the people that built your cities,
paved your roads,
that have grown your food,
and made your goods...
so what the hell are you doing to us?
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Mini Dubai
Silvered canal sprawls with a smile of wisdom.
Like a tamarind seed, my town nicknamed Mini Dubai
Burgeoned, then branched on Kanoli canal bank.
To come up to their own town, busy pedestrians step down
An ancient bridge of imperialism built by the British.
As the traffic lights have lost the eye balls,
A potbellied police man dances and controls.
Jalopies groan, and modern cars whiz.
A long whistle: ambulance with the wounded
And van with a wedding party halt side by side,
As the southern and northern hemispheres of
Emotions meet at a single point, by chance.
Among the concrete buildings seethe under the tanning rays,
Splurging women whirl in the hurry wind. Stink of sweats
And aroma of Arabian perfumes choke the air in the shops,
Where, sometimes, chicanery and dupery peek through the glassed.
To the government offices nearby, applications drafted in blood
And salt scurry only to get the obsequies in the waste baskets.
The sots creep like snakes in the yard of Sandra Bar.
Nostalgic smell of canal mud sops in sizzling tang from a cafeteria.
Two love birds kiss
On the high bough of the tamarind:
Fluttering of natural mirth –
Paradise is in the height.
A crow sits on electric post and watches all beneath with a smile of wisdom.
FABIYAS M V
poem by Fabiyas M V
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Tombestone
The night is dark, the moon is full
Across the blood red plain
Every step and every breath
Brings me nearer home
The spirits watch me on my way
They whisper on the wind
And when the dawn lights up the sky
Ill see my land again
A hot wind blows the scrub and dust
Across the barren land
Trees stand bare like skeletons
The mountains all torn down
The water holes are dry as bones
No birds are singing now
And faraway a city stands
Tombstones against the sky
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Tombstone
The night is dark, the moon is full
Across the blood red plain
Every step and every breath
Brings me nearer home
The spirits watch me on my way
They whisper on the wind
And when the dawn lights up the sky
I'll see my land again
A hot wind blows the scrub and dust
across the barren land
Trees stand bare like skeletons
The mountains all torn down
The water holes are dry as bones
No birds are singing now
And faraway a city stands
Tombstones against the sky
song performed by by Pogues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Prayer To Doubt
if you are everywhere
where shall i see you
it will not be specific
like a street with a specific number
or that
widely accepted landmark
like a
rock of Gibraltar
or a room at the second floor
numbered 6
if you only tell me
specifically
i would not have been in this
doubtful mess
are you in the sky
or at the top of the mountain
you tell me 'i am in your heart'
but my heart
i stabbed by the sharp knife
of sorrow
are you pain?
i am looking for you
everywhere
pity me
for i am tired and my feet are wounded
i cannot be in everywhere
as it can be nowhere
guide me
are you at the bottom of this ocean
of grief?
tell me
i am willing to dive there
and die
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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