Cool, calm, and collected
like the ocean on a sunny day
he smiles, happy and amused
he eyes shine bright
he reminds me of a flower
lovely and strong
He moves like a panther
fierce like one too
he looks at me like he loves me
maybe I love him too.
Category: 2019 Poetry
Read Poem: Truth Be Told, by Phil Ginsburg
“I saw truth flick a cigarette at those guys”
“Truth don’t even smoke,” somebody else said
Another witness remarked, “Truth didn’t do anything, the guys in the car just shot for no reason”
Three people said truth started saying stuff, stuff nobody wanted to hear and that some people told truth to shut up, but truth kept jawing at every body
An elderly woman said truth was in the wrong neighborhood; had no reason to be there, especially at that hour
Somebody said truth needed to get its head on straight, needed some correction, one person, who refused to reveal her identity said all the witnesses were liars
Every body is coming from a different angle here
Every cusp of a cause is claiming their truth is the real truth
It was discovered truth had been shot in the back
Apparently, truth tried to walk away from the scene that night, wasn’t looking for a fight, it was suggested that maybe truth was a victim of mistaken identity, that perhaps the guys in the car thought truth was truth’s half-brother, half-truth, that happens a lot
Five suspects alleged to be in the car that night were brought in for questioning
Nobody admitted to anything and no one who was at the crime scene was willing to go to the lineup and identify anyone
You can’t blame them
If they can kill truth, they wouldn’t hesitate to kill friends of the truth too
You should have seen truth’s funeral
People from every race, neighborhood, income, political affiliation, religion, showed up
Who knew truth had touched so many lives?
Many testified how truth had always tried to make a difference, wasn’t afraid of being unpopular and how truth repaired their marriages and enabled others to face their conflicts and addictions
One person even claimed truth helped them give up fried calamari
It was very moving
At the cemetery, with the lowering of the coffin into the ground (You may not believe this, but I was there and saw it happen)
Truth opened the casket lid and got out, looked at everyone and said, “I’m not dead; you can’t kill me, I’m still here”
Then truth just walked off the cemetery grounds, still in grave clothes, crossed the street and went into this nondescript Chinese take out place and five minutes later got on a bus with what looked a carton of chicken fried rice
Some people were upset, “Where did truth get money for bus fare and food?” said one. Others blamed the media for hyping truth’s death in the first place to further their agendas
Truth, it’s been reported, was seen the following week at a police interrogation in Damascus, a divorce court in Akron, a perjury hearing in Allentown, Pennsylvania, a confessional booth in Holland and at a high school audition for “Cats” in Branson, Missouri
Truth, I just found out, was recently stabbed in a domestic dispute in Richmond, Virginia, but survived
Truth, it seems, gets around a lot
But maybe not as much as some folks get around the truth.
Read Poem: A Day in the Lake District, by Jacqueline Mead
With my husband by my side, I sit and reflect
Upon my image in the stream
At wonder in the changes of my being
The weather warm but windy, with oft a gentle spray of rain
I feel lively, lightness appears to be my gain
Sat at a spot of such beauty, it takes your breath away
Appreciating the silence, as you give thanks for the day
In front of you great Lakes of Water some world-famous being sailed or swam side to side
Behind you in contrast high Peaks and Mountains, waiting to be climbed
There are paths to be walked, Roman Forts to be found
Cruises to be taken, bikes to ride, hidden gems all around
Ice creams to be bought, footsteps to be walked
Pubs, Cafes, and Restaurants by the Water sought
There is history to be lived amongst the many Villages
There is romance to be read in Poetry of old
Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey Poets of pure gold
Their stories and Poems, their legacies, forever being told
Dear Poet, pick up your Pen and paint a picture with your words
Tell the world your thoughts, let your voice be heard
Be it Romance or Nature that lets your mind wander free
I am your reader, paint your picture solely for me
I promise to take great care with it, treat it respectfully
Here’s thanks to all Poets new and old
Poets of great treasure with stories yet to be told
Do your best as Wordsworth, Byron and Coleridge, truly did
Be inspired light your candle, and be truly glad you lived
Read Poem: HeartBeat2019, by Lawrence Mathebula.
Still lifting, toiling ever a
sound beating
Awake you’re on, even when
I am sleeping
Tonight in darkness, still in
the light I awake
For all the breath’s full and
half intake
Of sips and sighs a spell,
‘Gainst death a stride excels
In the morning, early dawn
Again, sun’s fire on
Horizon stand a half
Till full fire’s enough,
Warmth’s given to my heart’s
Life beloved ever a part
Of me is found in thee,
That new hour I should see!
Read Poem: Piconni The Give Out Lover, by Rachel Kabura
Sending out thy truest love
Without a chance to bear
I shall reap what I sow
Affirmed were your decisions
Living proof of your deserter
Your gun pointed to my heart
My last words on your mouth
For I am Piconni the give out lover
Merciless and hopeless
For I remained chained to you
With your gun pointed to my heart
With the last love song we sang in the dark night
With the horrors we have faced
You are still my soldier
I am your war
For you have fought to kill
But I will not let you kill this love
For I am Piconni the Give Out Lover
Read Poem: ENOUGH, by Mirain
Let’s talk about the Swedish teen
Who’s been making headlines,
Appearing on screens
With Red Light warnings
About global warming
And the indifference of the masses.
Greta Thunberg –
With the might of an iceberg
She stands.
She’s stood alone and with many,
At home or abroad,
Stand does she
Stubbornly
Broad with defiance,
A “don’t fuck with me” frown
The crown of this image
Of a sixteen year old making a stand
For her unborn grandchildren.
How chilling.
How absolutely mad
That the people deemed not old enough to vote
Have had to consider
The load of trash
We’ve put on their heads,
Had to protest lest we burn the world to ash
Or make everything in it dead.
Their children will likely never see the coral reefs,
With thanks to Great Grandpa Donald
Who simply loved his beef!
Literal kids can see the pain
That will rain down on our fighting planet
Unless they right the wrongs in it.
They know the gains!
They fathom this pain
Yet refrain from disdaining
‘Cause they know they have no time.
What’s yours and mine
Today
Is theirs tomorrow,
And, oh! What sorrow
To hand to them a broken world
With one end curled
Around a self-righteous paper straw;
“What more could we have done?
We tried to rack our brains
But it’s so much slower without planes
And steak just tastes insanely great…
But, wait!
Is that a pig-tailed adolescent
Suggesting I use compact fluorescent bulbs?
Telling me to act?
The Descent of Man by Darwin
Is littered with facts
About Natural Selection
And the vital role an erection
Plays in the continuation of us!
Yet she highlights that there’s nothing natural
In what we are headed towards
And thus!
We must change our ways and reap the rewards,
Or be engulfed by our greed
And burned by rays of UV
Slicing through the O-zone layer
One of the key players In our destruction…
What an eruption!
By a sixteen year old girl
Of accusations
and blame
For the state of
Our world!”
…said those too old to live to see
An exploited planet
Down on its knees
Wheezing up the mistakes of the past,
Our vast ignorance,
With children paying the penance.
She fathoms the tremendous gains
For humankind,
All animals and birds,
But faces the pain
Of trolling and attempts to stain
Her reputation
And belittle her frustration –
It pains me to state that
She will know the pain of fame,
Thanks to pricks like Brendan O’Neill
Who claims that “she is proof that the millenarian green
Movement is messing up
The next generation”
Whilst failing to fess up
About the generous donations
His racist, fame-hungry movement on Spiked
Receives from some US oil billionaires –
Greta’s generation is the heir
Of a planet compromised for a selfish choice,
But big-man Brendan dismisses this warrior
As a “weirdo” with a “monotone voice”.
He’s sadly not the first
To express a thirst
For the humiliation of the girl
Based on her autism,
By assholes who failed in journalism
So cling desperately to controversy
And hate;
Professional click-baiters,
These dickish haters
Mean not what they say
But what they say is mean:
“Can the BBC arrange for Andrew Neil
(a right-wing attack dog always hungry for his next meal)
To interview this Greta Thunberg character?
Because I guarantee we’ll never hear from her
Again.
She may even add a meltdown on national telly
Into the bargain.”
Words apparently do not fail
Helen Dale,
But perhaps she failed them.
Most recently
And shamefully,
A name from Murdoch’s columns
Makes a less-than-solemn attack,
Most likely for attention,
But maturity seems to lack
In those mature folk with a mic
Or a pen
Who jest and joke
Poke fun and then
Condemn a movement
Based on scientific fact,
Led by a “strange girl” who shouldn’t talk back
To big men and money,
As a cult.
It’s tragically funny
That Greta must ask
“Where are the adults?”
It’s time we all halt
And consider that Adam Bolt,
Painfully desperate
For disposable fame,
Supposes he can tarnish Greta’s name
With his playground-bully claim:
“I have never seen a girl so young
And with so many mental disorders
Treated by so many adults
As a guru.”
Apparently a psychologist,
Bolt wants to argue
Against the influence of the teen
By, like others, dismissing her keen
Sense of global justice
Due to a diagnosis of Asperger’s
And wrap it up in malice
To see how far it could spread.
By the time the worst of Greta’s warnings
Become reality
And our only home warming
To the point of fatality
This pathetic man will be dead
So he has nothing to lose
And publicity to gain
By expressing disdain
For a “freakishly influential” activist.
The only thing ‘mental’
Is that this controversial columnist
Publicly attacking the younger sister
Of an unapologetic fighter
For the future
Is a 59 year old man.
This girl fights because she can.
And must.
Ask yourself which of these two people
You can trust.
No pain, no gain.
Greta knows this.
A cheap ‘dis’ in the media
won’t make her remiss
In her mission
Because the Earth’s condition is
Dire.
Her generation needs a voice
And this girl – she breathes fire.
So if you’re offended
By the blame game
Of the doomed generation
And feel no shame
For the eternal damnation of
All. Life. On. Earth.
Then listen to her again!
Because again and again and again
A gain is overlooked –
The restored harmony of nature
Where we are not hooked
On poisons and fossils,
On plastic and money.
That frown on her face
Tells us it’s not funny,
It’s not honey-glazed hippies hugging some trees
That are down on their knees
Begging us to STOP!
And consider
The wider picture,
The future gains
Or the pain they’ll endure
If we don’t cure
The disease of the consumer –
It is our youths.
And they’re talking to you.
Greta Thunberg –
Stands with the might of an iceberg
And yes – icebergs nowadays
Are up against a lot,
As it gets hotter
They vanish into the water
And become millions of extra drops
In the rising ocean.
This so-called ‘ignorant, brainwashed child’
Is enough to inspire
A million drops to bind together
And stand behind her
Against the harsh weather
Of billionaires, critics,
Bullies and corporations
And speak as a generation
Representing every last nation’s
Unborn souls.
And when the opposition
Doles out its ridicule
And criticism,
And deniers list
The endless, unobtainable things it’ll take
To fix this
And their force like that of a tsunami,
Greta, please, you listen to me –
You alone are making waves
By braving the storm
To demand reform.
The way mankind behaves
Means the fight can be tough,
But, girl, you keep on standing
And you tell them
“I. Am. Enough.”
Read Poem: The Artist, by Latonia Sears
The whisper of sweet nothings in your ear projecting love in the background feeling something familiar inside
The vibrations you feel with every beat followed by the distant and vague strokes you hear from the amplification of it all
Turning poetry into perfection and a memorable moment in your mind it feels so sublime to hum or whistle with a certain idea in mind
Clapping hands and snapping fingers initiate your bodily emotions in sync and perfect rhythmic chime whether you are voguing or doing the waltz
Popping, ticking, stomping to something so soothing to my senses within my human state of being nothing to hide only something to give
Wont stop cant mute my world of endless relaxation and vibration the excitement it compels in the soulful part of my mind
The skatting of soulful rhythmic verses magnified to spread the word around to those seeking refuge from the mondane
Cords, lyrics, speeding up but at times slowing down to form the most beautiful serinades with stanzas and rhyme and plenty of reason
Something so precious that it will continue to stand the test of time changing more and more through every generation a new way of thinking most times
Making space for new images that can sometimes share a nostalgic inovation coupled with a new found refrain
Read Poem: Mortal Love, by Jayanta Biswas
#love #relationship #friendship #pain #philosophy #spirituality
I could never think
In my remotest thoughts
That we would turn up like this.
The sweetness of friendship
And the fragrance it promised
All the smooth rides
Would be interspersed with
Hiccups in the endeavour
To be kept tied up to the other
Once thought indispensable.
Even with defenceless doubts
And dogged disbelief
And shades of mistrust
We would just hang on to comply
With sporadic force and waning vigour
And the demand of decided routine.
If dream is everything
And thoughts are its recognition
What this waking state means!
Or this special awakening?
It is certainly not a wait
That you will still want breath
To catch hold of you
In its dubious present!
It is by no means
An impossibility
That you will remain helpless
And alone in the night.
This is within your very capacity
To keep the communication going.
To bring your cosmic rhythm
Onto the other eagerly waiting.
You very much know
Who keeps watch at the distant horizon;
Who waits by your side
Always holding out his hands
Warm and glowing in love
Transcendental and blissful.
Yet, if you feel you cannot move
You cannot walk side by side
Holding hands clasping the fingers tight–
It’s an inability, and a crippling excuse
Maiming the soul–living but paralysed.
If the vow is pure
And the friendship is strong
It’s the actions which should speak–
The dreams and imaginations
Being the roots and basis.
That we are bound by common coordinates
Time, space and proximity
And not acting Avatars in helpless virtuals
That all these heavenly feelings
Are sourced from everything earthly
That we act as mortals searching eternity
Why don’t we do all that’s within our limit!
Care for all the timeless instants.
The power of divine
Comes from the power from within
That’s strictly linked with the present.
And there should be no regrets
That it is just this world
This is the limit of our bourne:
And we are the children of this real
Wherein should flourish all our feelings–
We mere mortals–the flesh and blood
Strive hard to feel the life and its pulse
And thus we embrace love and fate
And conquer death– the facade of a new world.
Jayanta
(C) All rights reserved
Poet’s social media links:
https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jayanta7177
Read Poem: BUTTERFLY EVENT, by MARK-ALAN
THE BUTTERFLY EVENT!
The Official Poem for the Butterfly Life Cycle Lesson Plan!
Excerpt
The Butterfly event is nature’s intent for you to know
sent from heaven rain for seven so you can grow,
and learn how to gather your wings to fly anywhere you
want to go,
THE BUTTERFLY EVENT
The Butterfly event is nature’s intent for you to know,
sent from heaven rain for seven so you can grow,
and learn how to gather your wings to fly anywhere you want to go,
The Butterfly event has four stages,
The egg, larva, pupa, and adult are the changes,
The Butterfly event starts with an egg that grows,
The egg hatches and transfers into a larva and it moves slow,
A larva is a caterpillar an insect with six legs,
And these insects eat a lot after it hatches from their eggs,
As the caterpillar becomes large and fat not thin,
Then the caterpillar begins to shed its skin,
The Butterfly event is nature’s intent for you to know,
sent from heaven rain for seven so you can grow,
and learn how to gather your wings to fly anywhere you want to go,
Stage three is called the pupa known as the cocoon,
Where the caterpillar occupies and lives under the moon,
The cocoon hangs upside down on a tree,
Where caterpillar’s rest peacefully,
The season of Spring sings,
In the cocoon is when the caterpillar grows its wings,
The Butterfly event is nature’s intent for you to know,
sent from heaven rain for seven so you can grow,
and learn how to gather your wings to fly anywhere you want to go,
Stage four is called an adult an extraordinary event,
When the caterpillar transforms into a Butterfly as nature intent,
The caterpillar shreds from the cocoon hanging high,
A beautiful Butterfly appears with wings to fly,
The Butterfly event is nature’s intent for you to know,
sent from heaven rain for seven so you can grow,
and learn how to gather your wings to fly anywhere you want to go,
Read Poem: Generation, by A. Brown
To have Strength to persevere
in a time filled with:
peer pressure,
envy and hate,
is a modern-day miracle.
I’ve come to realise,
that the greater the blessing,
the greater the obstacle.
There was a glass ceiling,
until it was broken by
my,
desire not to be,
compared.
There are many opportunities,
but only one chance.
Father, help me,
I pray thee.
When disappointments come,
Please help me
to respond with integrity.
I don’t want to be,
another statistic,
whose life ends in tragedy.
You have never left our side.
Your promises are true.
Lord, I need you,
and our generation does too.
-A. Brown
Copyright © 2019 A. Brown. All rights reserved.