Category: Uncategorized

Society Poetry: Consumer by Jeremy Duhart

Consumer

I want it all, goods and services. Money’s not a problem, I’m excited when purchasing. On the internet stores I stay surfing looking for the product to make my life perfect. There’s always something to buy to fix all of my prefects and defects, just need a 16 digit card number and an address for FedEx. I’m looking for value not trying to give it. I want it in seconds, too long is a minute. Sacrifice my rent payment for some reckless spending. Can’t get my mind off that new product, it’s addicting. That ad I just saw definitely has me influenced. Can’t wait to exchange this old thing for the newest. The coolest gadgets and fashion are waiting in my wish list. I’m in line online looking for my next wish. Spent hours shopping from home. Don’t cook, don’t clean, the DIY movement is wrong. I have a life full of improvement via products I’m consuming.

Too hot
Language has transformed from spoken to virtual.
Words now less spoken than texted with emojis.
Smiling faces looking at screens not seeing
what lies underneath their walking feet.
Dirt roads made into concrete constructing
freeways until they are complete.
Skyscrapers and buildings our ancestors wouldn’t recognize.
Mass creation on a scale not imagined by past lives.
Simulation of all things moving closer to perfection.
Or an illusion so good we delude ourselves into satisfaction.
The drive for knowledge and relaxation is the sponsor for robotics.
Creativity advocated by heavy usage of hallucinogens and narcotics. Development is going so fast the future can’t brace enough.
Are we coming in too hot?
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Society Poetry: Pocket Sized Wreath by Cassandra Swan

The elephant-grey, cracked walkway clacks with alacrity:  
as the tedious, stiff facades in a talentless circus of mediocrity  
plod, and trek to their typical, mechanical homage – a life my   
insurrection rejects!  Instead, at a lowly, junk-ridden, rickety   
desk – on sixteen-hour, voluntary shifts – I regurgitate injustice.  
  
Will I ever switch my rabble-rousing, misanthropic existence  
for a steady salary, car and otiose days off at Christmas?  
Swivel chairs – in an unholy, goldfish bowl – with chains!  
Pub jaunts, cream cakes with petty, civilian saints,  
and dreary, clock-watching years, with lottery syndicates.  
  
This rantipole poet re-mortgaged her lifeblood to repossess time:  
decrypting the tangled-web of a tortured mind’s production lines.  
My supernatural re-incarnation – as a poetic, psychic surgeon –   
pledges petroglyphs of Donatistic lyrics, and complex lamentations.  
I survive by devouring plentiful plenilunes in valiant dimensions.  
Jekyll and Hyde’s allotment cultivates fine verbs and nouns.   
  
Fifty years devout, sterling service awards and android-head,  
with an ingot watch, a pension and an orthopaedic bed!  
Yet, starving lyricists live eternally in folios: their cicatrices  
flood like wordy blood, as knife-edged, quality-controlled rectos  
cut into eternal ebbs and flows of etymological, mystagogic tides.  
  
An android’s watch – rasped by retirement, coronary and death –   
ticks on as a by-passed heart, gasping for breath:  
under a charity shop counter, it flops; limp as an amaranth,  
in a swiftly-decomposing, demoralised, pocket-sized wreath.  
  
This wage-less wordsmith’s spine-chilling lines will outlive  
the hands and face of mechanised life and time; by sculpting  
denticulate epistles – with a scalpel – into epidermis then epitaph. 

Copyright Cassandra Swan

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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A Slow Train to Gwalior, Poetry Movie by Amitabh Mitra

A Slow Train to Gwalior by Amitabh Mitra

Amitabh Mitra is a poet, visual artist  and a medical practitioner at East London, South Africa. He heads the Department of Emergency Medicine at Cecilia Makiwane Hospital, Mdantsane, Eastern Cape. Widely published, Amitabh’s love poetry revolves around the city of Gwalior, India to which he originally belongs.

Amitabh Mitra

April Past, Poetry by Slowmoto

April Past

A devil in my calendar
He eats, lives, and breathes
Pour in happiness
To exhale disgust
Do you see that me?
To this demon I remain hostage
No amnesia,
Or Armor,
Or Alternate belief
I hate this month
Being torn apart
By the devil it revives in me

Poet: Slowmoto

@slowmoto
Genre: relent

 

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Society Poem: Now We’ll Never Know, by Deborah Johnson

—

 Deborah Johnson
author “For Just five Minutes-Heaven, YES-Hell.NO”

Now We’ll Never Know

so cute

photo by Pinterest

Look into these precious eyes and tell me she doesn’t feel anything? Look into these eyes and tell me that her life doesn’t count? Look upon her face, her hair, her eyes, her skin and tell me she wasn’t in the womb, beautifully and wonderfully made? How many must cry out for the lives of those aborted before someone listens to their tears? “A Mother’s Heart Denied ” I wrote about the aching of the heart of a childless woman.  This poem approaches these precious little lives from a different perspective. ‘Mother who acted on her “CHOICE”:’

When I found out you were in fact  for real

Not letting myself believe, dream or feel.

There was no time in my scheduled life for a child,

For being  a Mother and a wife, that’s just too wild!

Taking care of it was the simple fix,

Just get rid of “it” was in my bag of tricks.

I think of you from time to time

Wondering if your hair was the color of mine?

Wondering if green eyes sparkled in the sun?

Wondering what allowed you to have the most fun?

Beautiful brown hair tied with a bow,

Ponytail bouncing, Out Of MY Dreams, Go!

Haunted forever by the sound of your voice,

I wish I hadn’t listened to those saying, “It’s your choice!”

Oh, how my aching arms long to hold you so tight,

As I sit here and cry during the long, long night.

What if you had my ability to sing?

Laying your talents before the king.

He might have an opened a door no man could close.

Now, that song you’ll never compose.

Precious moments, hastily gone forever.

Now We’ll never know, no never.

‘Woman Wanting a child:’

So here I sit wanting nothing more.

Than for God to bless me and open that door

A husband and a child was the perfect dream

But it wasn’t going to happen or so it seemed.

These children of his belong to their mother .

There seems to be no room in their hearts for another.

My husband and I both love to sing.

If only we had brought a child into this world to bring

Music  that could soar to God’s very throne,

A dark-headed, green-eyed child of our own.

Her laughter delighting as we splash and we swim.

Thinking,”How blessed,” at just the thought of him.

Staring at the beauty of the perfect little hands.

Feeling how tiny and how much love they demand.

Holding his hand to make him feel secure.

What a joy to watch her grow and mature!

My heart missing those days, sharing our dreams

Talking of God and how heaven seems.

Discussing  guardian angels who guide and protect

Praying for God to love and direct.

Not letting myself dream about you too much.

Believing what could have been, and such,

But now it’s too late for our family to grow.

Yes, it’s too late, Now We’ll Never Know.

Psalms 139:16 You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was laid out before a single day had passed.

The poem “A Mother’s Heart Denied”. This poem was inspired by Caleb a fellow blogger and his pro-life stance on abortion. Thank you Caleb!

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A picture is worth a thousand words. You will not believe this story. Well worth the few minutes it will take to read it.  About the picture: http://michaelclancy.com/ The-Hand-of-Hope-72dpi   “Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you”.   – Jeremiah 1:5 Photos from Pinterest, photographer unknown.

I will sing praises to Him

SAD IS REAL ANDHURT IS HARD If all you want to do is cry, watch thesunset and for 1 minute think on the beauty in creation and something good in your past and future. The next day for 2 minutes. The next day for 3 minutes, etc. Before you know it, you will have gone an hour without thinking about whatever is hurting your heart. Now, sunsets are an inspiration.  They are God’s art speaking to my heart!* My cure for depression: ” Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things.” Philippians 4:8 Health is mental and physical.

©ASK FOR PERMISSION Deborah Johnson and debbie’s journey to health and hope, December, 2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Deborah Johnson and debbie’s journey to health and hope with appropriate and specific direction to the original content. This includes all photography . Photography copyrighted through National Geographic.

Curiosity, Get Lost With Me, Poetry by Lizzie Heart

Genre: Rhyme, Life

Curiosity, Get Lost With Me by Lizzie Heart   

I have often wondered
about the birth of a lie.
The first historical untruth,
bearing the uncouth.

As it’s identity was told,
our ability to coincide was sold.
BUT,
what if we differently choose;
True or false never composed.

Contrast how we’re aware that a lie can existing anywhere;
Keying the ignition
of Paranoid suspicions.

Lies eradicated
and history re-rooted,
present day would contain
relations seemingly strange.

Altered existence
could challenge the persistence
tied to Truth’s scavenger hunt;
through the words that we say
and the events of the day.

I am impressed
by humanity’s depths;
with lies that possess and
spawn the obsessed.
A pattern seriously strong
with sincerity nearly gone.

Intriguing thought,
to have omittance and fabrication never taught.
Preventing, you know, one of those fights
that last straight into the night;
with frustrations strained
as resistance is so tactfully maintained.

Could it be,
trust would ease,
doubt decrease,
if society agrees
to murder deceptions
and allow civilization’s animations.

Only underwear and socks will be everywhere
and cause tempers to flair.
sounds good to me,
let’s start living life fair!

~
Lizzie Heart

 

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Society Poetry: 1918 Sanctuary by T. Hopper

1918 Sanctuary by T. Hopper

For as I lay in your embrace,

My breath be shallow..heart doth race

The trench ,the bugle ,the distant drum

Fight for country …defeat the Hun

So protected in your cocoon

Daybreak looming behind the moon

Sleep it cowers and it creeps…

Tears of mine ..i gently weep

Not tonight …well not for me …

Safe and sound for that I be

The dark …its cold …a killers friend

The night flame flickers ..Bows and bends

The shadows dance to a pipers tune

As we did …that day in June

The day I marched..with head held high

For king and country ..live or die

Young men together … comrades in fear

Maidens calling hip hip three cheers

The front …the gas ..ahead barbwire…

The stink ..the stench of gods hell fire

Bully beef …and rationed stew ..

.Last letters home from me to you

Dearest sweetheart …love of my life

Dearest mother …precious wife

Signing off with yours devoted …

All my love and sugar coated

Kisses sent ….a thousand score …

Each one delivered when at your door

Just let me live please god I pray …

To see my love ..just one more day

So here we lay …safe and sound …

Hearts entwined …emotions bound

And as the eve does turn to light …

My candle salutes…. its last goodnight.

T.Hopper

Copyright2015

 

 

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Burnt Bridges, Poetry by Monica H. Thomas

Genres: #poetry #society #misguided

Burnt Bridges by Monica H. Thomas

How many bridges you gone burn before you learn the streets don’t give a damn about you…
Have you ever witnessed ya own death
Blood stains scattered on the ground
People screaming and hollering amongst the siren sound
How you died ya don’t know that
The way you live there’s a price to pay
Death will knock on ya door it don’t give a damn where you stay
As soon as ya soul departs ya body there goes the Grim Reaper
He’s waiting to escort ya soul straight to Hell
Where ya boys now?
Where’s all that My Brother’s Keeper?
You was a bad seed you had no ambitions at all
You’ve been getting into trouble every since you’d learned to crawl
The streets raised you up and taught ya how to be a man
You’d gotten ya self in too deep ya couldn’t dig ya way out
You was sink’n fast as if you was in quick sand
How many bridges you gone burn before you learn the streets don’t give a damn about you
It’ll chew you up, it’ll spit you out, it don’t matter how low you get or how much clout
The neighborhood dope man now that was ya role model
On the corner he’d taught ya how to slang some dope
You climbed up the rope
It wasn’t before long you’d managed to gain his trust
He begin to let you hold his whip to go bury the stash
But of course that was right after you’d made the cash
He told ya not to be too flashy always keep a low profile so nobody notices you
You took heed to what he said
You even cut some people off so now ya only mess with a few
You never wrote nothing down instead ya memorized it in ya head
That eliminated the paper trail
If ya don’t talk about it they can’t prove it
You felt as long as ya fam was gonna be straight it didn’t matter what they find out after you was dead
On the streets you was taught to carry ya feelings on ya shoulda so ya enemies didn’t know you was scared
If ya died today or tomorrow ya just another statistic, so what makes ya think after ya gone that anybody cared
How many bridges you gone burn before you learn the streets don’t give a damn about you
It’ll chew you up, it’ll spit you out, it don’t matter how low you get or how much clout
On the streets every man is for self
It’s sad sometimes when ya gotta take out ya own kind
But ya got to get them before they get you
Pull the trigger until you see the lights go out the whites in his eyes
Do you have any idea how many innocent Blacks get sent to the chair because somebody got on the stand and told a bunch of lies?

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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Khwajah Piruz, Poetry by Renkian Barrymore

Genre: Religion

Khwajah Piruz by Renkian Barrymore

Many of you don’t know me.
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Mazdayasnian Fire Keeper,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

Cleanness rebuffs all evil.
Purge the home, paint the walls, spruce the garden.
‘Khane Tekani’ is essential –
And annual visitations common.

They nourish the growth of your sabzeh,
That slept during cold winter days.
Now lentils, barley and wheat abounding,
Your ancestors’ wishes purveyed.

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year,
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near,
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

Many of you don’t know me,
My name is Khwajah Piruz.
Khwajah is Lord, Piruz victorious,
The herald delivering Nowruz.

I probably came from Mogadishu,
Though this is not the mainstream view.
Marauding Arabs conquered the Persians,
Then changed my name to ‘Hajji Firuz.’

Don’t confuse me with Bilal al Rabah,
The Meccan, the black muzzein.
My origins are rooted in Persia,
The ‘Tepe’ bears testament to my name.

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year,
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near,
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

Blackface is soot from the fire,
Or when I ascend from the dead.
Even a slave from Zanzibar –
But why not Prince Siyavash instead?

Status demeaned I no longer am
Considered ‘Victorious Lord’.
They converted me into a minstrel,
To play ‘saz’ and sing silly songs.

Look at me Lord, it’s been a while.
Do me a favour,
My very own Lord, the billy goat –
Why don’t you smile my Lord?

It’s Khwajah Piruz, only one day a year
Everyone knows, I know as well.
I bring good news, Nowruz is near
Siyâhi-e to az man, zardi-e man az to.

The children adore me, adults laugh,
Shiny coins swell my felted hat –
No more than a raucous spectacle –
How I yearn for the distant past.

A Fire Priest hostile to Daevas –
Zartosht’s appointed muzzein.
Homage bellowed through Asha-filled streets,
Reciting from memory, praying for the Dīn.

Dank areas lit up by the magi flame,
People of all ages came,
Confessing debts, rejecting authority,
The lawless, the wicked, the foulest beings.

Now look at me now Lord, it’s been a while.
Do me a favour,
My very own Lord, the billy goat –
Why don’t’ you smile my Lord?

https://renkian.wordpress.com/

 

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
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WATCH this month’s poetry readings performed by professional actors:
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Society Poetry: SHACKLES OF LIFE by Lois Terrans Bradbury

SHACKLES OF LIFE

by Lois Terrans Bradbury

 

The shackles of life can tear the flesh.

Cut deep.

Silence the heart and suffocate the soul,

crush the spirit and drown all hope,

bury the love and hobble expectation,

chill the laughter and boil the hate,

twist the mind and steal imagination.

The wound goes so deep,

the scars never heal.

Memories shadowed in darkness,

fighting to be seen,

dreams shattered,

never to be born.

Cries of desperation choked,

never to be heard.

And the blood of the innocent spilled,

never to be loved.

The turbulence echoes like a maddening menace,

consuming any flame that dares to dance,

chasing any joy that wished to flee,

imprisoning thoughts that struggle to be free.

The undercurrent too strong,

the sands of life vanish,

songs of love are erased.

Passion is tormented,

tenderness is broken.

Music’s magic touch gone forever.

Eternity to be wrapped in blankets of pain.

Forever sorrow to reign.

 

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Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

WATCH this month’s poetry readings performed by professional actors:
http://www.wildsoundfestival.com/may_2015_poetry_readings.html

Watch Recent Poetry Readings:

Watch Previous Poems turned into movies: