Category: Philosophical

THE WORLD’S GONE MAD, Poetry by Kevin Short

Genre: Life, Society

THE WORLD’S GONE MAD by Kevin Short

THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
AS MAD AS HATTERS
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
ITS ALL IN TATTERS
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
BATS IN THE BELFRY
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
NOT EVEN HEALTHY
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
IT’S OH SO SAD
AND OH, WOE AM I
ITS TIME TO DO OR DIE

THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
BUT WE CAN CHANGE IT
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
WE’LL REARRANGE IT
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
YES, WE CAN BEAT IT
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
WE CAN DEFEAT IT
WE’LL ALL GO MAD
RAVING MAD
WE’LL ALL GET CERTIFIED
AND OH, WOE BETIDE

THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
COME ON AND SHOUT IT
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
READ ALL ABOUT IT
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
ITS WACKADOODLE
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
MAD IN THE NOODLE
THE WORLD’S GONE MAD
SO LET’S GO MAD
AND OH, WOE BETIDE
NOBODY WILL SURVIVE!

 

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North of Tombstone, 3 A.M, Poetry by Doug Stanfield

Shadows and silhouettes made by the waning moon
Slide past and disappear in the direction of California’a promise.
Off to the south somewhere over the sand and arroyos and cacti
Is Old Mexico. A few miles, no more.
A small town slips into view through the train window:
Safeway. Ace Hardware. A Benson Fuel station glares at a Shell station on the other corner.

Genre: Philosophy

North of Tombstone, 3 A.M by Doug Stanfield

http://hemmingplay.com

Shadows and silhouettes made by the waning moon
Slide past and disappear in the direction of California’a promise.
Off to the south somewhere over the sand and arroyos and cacti
Is Old Mexico. A few miles, no more.
A small town slips into view through the train window:
Safeway. Ace Hardware. A Benson Fuel station glares at a Shell station on the other corner.
Ten-thousand tons glide to a stop so softly it would not wake a baby with colic.

An old woman with a bonnet lifts a bag over the curb,
Joining our travels. Her husband watches that she
Gets on board, hands shoved in jeans pockets, then turns back to the pickup for the long
Drive home in the dark, another desert sunrise a few miles down the dusty road.

Rolling again, now. Eastward toward a corner of New Mexico, then El Paso and Texas.

The car rocks softly, the miles drift by, the engine far ahead
The horn blast at crossings barely heard and I feel myself drifting off to sleep again.

I wonder about the kind of man who would come here
In the early times, on horseback, or on foot
Across this dry emptiness that only wanted to suck the water from them?

Was it silver? Land? Water?
Or simply that those men had managed to run
All other choice away somehow,
And this dry place, full of ghosts and questions,
Was the last that would take them…
All human bonds snapped, rejected,
Starting over where no one could know your shame.

Indifferent it was to anything
But the water in them.

 

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The Man in The Elevator, Poetry by Zach Smith

Your eyes stare forward
into another world,
light years away from here
when in reality–
we are separated by mere feet
instead of miles.

Genre: Philosophical

The Man in The Elevator
by Zach Smith

We ride the elevator,
two complete strangers
trapped together in a small box,
separated by nothing but
uncomfortable silence.
Every day,
we get on at
the exact same time,
the exact same floor.
You get off at the 7th level,
and I at the 12th.
You have coffee and a briefcase,
and I the same thing.
Our briefcases are the same color
and the same style.
I’ve thought about mentioning it,
but it’s been five years now
and I still haven’t.
Your eyes stare forward
into another world,
light years away from here
when in reality–
we are separated by mere feet
instead of miles.
It feels like you are standing at the North Pole
while I have my feet firmly planted at the South.
Polar opposites,
yet similar in so many regards.
We ride the elevator together.
Two complete strangers
trapped together in a small box,
separated by nothing but
uncomfortable silence.
-ZCS

 

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Hunger, Poetry by Sandra Jeffs

I grew up hungry, so damn hungry.

It wasn’t just hunger for food, although that was scarce.

It was hunger for knowing and feeling, and seeing and doing.

I was greedy to drink in everything,

Genre: Philosophy, Life

Hunger
by Sandra Jeffs

I grew up hungry, so damn hungry.

It wasn’t just hunger for food, although that was scarce.

It was hunger for knowing and feeling, and seeing and doing.

I was greedy to drink in everything,

to know how to fly, how to skim on water.

I saw everyone as wiser than me

and I sat at their feet and I listened and I learned.

I devoured books and poems and movies and music.

Songs filled me with dance and joy and love and freedom.

College challenged me and pushed me and exhausted me.

Travel opened my heart and wrote novels in my mind.

I discussed theories and possibilities and metaphysics.

I vehemently argued my points and many times I learned I was wrong,

But I grew. Yes, I grew every day, with every mistake and every success.

And I did it without much help nor any handouts

I worked. I worked hard for a paycheck,

worked hard for knowledge, for experience,

for skills and talents and I overcame so damn much.

So damn much!

 

Then, as I aged into my sixties,

I found I had passed so many people by,

I had never stopped for one single second

to think that I might grow past all the people I loved,

might learn myself out of friendships, and lovers;

might get myself to a place where other people don’t see what I see

and don’t want to see it, don’t want to know who they are,

nor why they are on this planet, don’t want to wake up.

They just want to get through life

and I no longer can even pretend to settle for so little.

 

The truth is– from the beginning. I never could settle for less

than knowing all that I could  just for the sake of knowing.

It’s just that I always thought everyone else wanted that, too.

I thought they were on this journey with me

and it feels lonely now that they stayed safe from the hunger,

It feels like a death has occurred to have gained so much

and to have so few people to share it with.

I see their best selves and wish they did too,

but they resent me those insights.

I am surprised at how wise I’ve seemed to become

because I never sought to be wiser than others,

I never thought my hunger would take me this far.

I feel shy to find I am wiser than those I once thought my mentors

or at least my peers.  I’d like to rail at the apathy and the fear,

that keeps people from being hungry.

Hunger is good.

Once we satisfy it, we are nourished and grow,

and then the hunger reappears and we continue seeking,

growing, learning, evolving.

 

Isn’t that our purpose in life?

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A MOMENT, Poetry by Oyinkan Agboola

One moment, we are a race who sees beauty in everything

The next, we have devolved into a race that sees beauty only in the vanity of appearance.

Genre:  Philosophical, Sad, Semi Inspirational, Humanity, Disappointment and a little hope.

A MOMENT by Oyinkan Agboola

 

One moment, we are a race who sees beauty in everything

The next, we have devolved into a race that sees beauty only in the vanity of appearance.

 

One moment, we speak philosophically

The next, we mock our own wise words.

 

One moment, we weep over the empty voids that are supposed to be filled with emotions.

The next, we celebrate the emptiness of the void.

 

One moment, we are so willing to fall in love

The next moment, we fear to leave the safety of the loveless heart.

 

One moment, we cling to humanity

The next, we gleefully tramp on it.

 

The moment we once again begin to see the perfection in imperfection,

The moment compassion begins to flow again in our blood,

The moment the mockery stops and the loving starts.

That is the moment we regain our humanity and lose the insanity.

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Is It Love?, Poetry by Fatima Begum

Am I in love? Or am I in love with love?

Is such a question necessary, when someone is in love? When it is me, I, myself, that is in love? The writer? Or would one call me a poet?

Unless, poetry demands me to fall in love, just so that I can write about love?
But, wait, dear sir, dear madam, what is love?

Genre: Philosophical and Romance

Is It Love? by Fatima Begum

Am I in love? Or am I in love with love?

Is such a question necessary, when someone is in love? When it is me, I, myself, that is in love? The writer? Or would one call me a poet?

Unless, poetry demands me to fall in love, just so that I can write about love?
But, wait, dear sir, dear madam, what is love?

A feeling? A tingly sensation? Happiness, followed by lack of sleep?
Waiting for him to arrive? To hear his voice, for his call? For his sweet touch, his finger to slide across your bare shoulders? For his eyes, that gaze, which holds such intensity? His smiles? Smiles reserved for only your eyes?

Or is it all a weakness? One word, and every limb in your body is alert. One touch, and your body shivers with excitement. Or, is it from fear? One look, and you feel your knees buckle. You’re just slightly dizzy, your excuse to others. Slightly flustered, you mumble whilst fanning yourself with your hand. But the smile. One smile, and your heart pounds against your ribs. Surely your ribs will explode? You can’t stop questioning. Can you? Is this just an excuse?

Truly, what is love?

Defeat? Who truly has control of your emotions? Is it not him? A word from him can make you smile. Yet, a word from him, can make you shed a tear. A word from him can make you hold your stomach with laughter. Yet, a word from him, can make you rage with anger. But, it is you who control your emotions, right?

Manipulation? He knows how you feel. He knows how you feel about him. But do you, yourself, know how you feel? How you feel about him? He asks you to commit a task. For him only, he states clearly. Your love permits it, he adds. Such smooth silky voice. You are against it. Truth be told, morals dictate that you must not carry out such a task. But it is love. Is love not worth it? Should one not do something, anything, everything for love? It has clouded your judgement. Although, is that not what love is?

But, then, you open your eyes. Are you in love? Were you in love? And, who was he that convinced you of love? A stranger you perhaps bumped into? A brief acquaintance from the past, an acquaintance who decided to taunt you in your dreams after years of complete silence.

No. You’ve never experienced it, so how can you know what love is? If you do not know what love is, how do you know if it is love?

So, am I in love, if I have no idea what love is? Or, am I another hopeless case, who has fallen in love with love itself. Do I want to fall in love and have him swipe me off my feet? Or do I want to fight it, so that only I, myself, can hold onto and control my emotions?

I’ve heard that one’s emotion is a powerful tool. So who should stay in power? Me or him? Or me and him?

By Fatima Begum

I ask again, is it love, for I do not know what love is?

 

 

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Alone, Poetry by Anderson Gomes

Solitude gets loneliness a lot more than it should,
It’s not a word to despise just to be understood.
For alone no one is as it’s made out to be,
What you face is just an altered state of reality.
Alone in this world does every person come,
And alone again is how all will succumb
Why then is loneliness treated with such disdain ?

Genre: Motivational, Solitude, Philosophical.

Alone

by Anderson Gomes

Solitude gets loneliness a lot more than it should,
It’s not a word to despise just to be understood.
For alone no one is as it’s made out to be,
What you face is just an altered state of reality.
Alone in this world does every person come,
And alone again is how all will succumb
Why then is loneliness treated with such disdain ?
When it’s just another way of coping with pain.
People you do meet on your journey along,
But to be with you always never is anyone so strong,
The battle that they fight just as you ignore,
So are they not a part of your war.
Expect not too much for the world does offer less,
And only to those who persist does the world bless.
So curse me not that I traverse all alone
Treading life’s path my solitary candle has shown,
No matter the tears and heart aches all around,
I’ll still be smiling when alone I lay six feet underground.

 

 

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When Muses Say Goodbye, Poetry by Robyn Lawson

Right there in his hands
He’d held the light, finally
Rescue imminent

Genre: Failed Redemption 

When Muses Say Goodbye by Robyn Lawson

Right there in his hands
He’d held the light, finally
Rescue imminent
RISE, love cried loudly
Please don’t shout so, he bemoaned
I’ll just fall down
Swampy Sirens crooned
Songs full of stale, trite intrigue
Their shadows, now home
Angels cried, silence
Hush all those false noises, Shh
It’s up to you now
when_muses_say_goodbye

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Forest Time, Poetry by Matt Shirley

Fingers of sunlight

Paint shadows

Genre: Philosophical.

Forest Time

Fingers of sunlight

Paint shadows

On forest floor leaves

Coloured by the seasons T

hat set them float free

By Matt Shirley
@A_Sea_of_Words

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HUMID ROOM, Poetry by Gokul Baby Alex

I feel I am not alone in this room

It breaths and crawls with my antics

So much of emotions brewing here

So much of humidity lives here

Genre: Philosophical

HUMID ROOM
by Gokul Baby Alex

I feel I am not alone in this room

It breaths and crawls with my antics

So much of emotions brewing here

So much of humidity lives here

A plenty of sweat and despair is born

Simmering out of sickness

It grows weird in my eyesight

I have another humid half

I know it is not made up of my days

I know it is not cooked in my dreams

It may be the other end of my porous beliefs

They see through the wedges of my pupil

A world full of half-baked ideas

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