Tag: Philosophical

A Remarkable Tale from the Land of Podd, Poetry by Ed Newman

In a faraway land, in the Land of Podd,
folks felt themselves each just a little bit odd.
Why in fact, not a few,
not even a dozen,
and not just a sister or uncle or cousin…
‘Twas the entire country caught under this spell,
each believed only others were anything swell,
and each felt discouraged just a smidge by his lot,
and this is what happened, believe it or not.

Genre: Humor, philosophical, hope, motivational

A Remarkable Tale
from the Land of Podd
by Ed Newman

In a faraway land, in the Land of Podd,
folks felt themselves each just a little bit odd.
Why in fact, not a few,
not even a dozen,
and not just a sister or uncle or cousin…
‘Twas the entire country caught under this spell,
each believed only others were anything swell,
and each felt discouraged just a smidge by his lot,
and this is what happened, believe it or not.

It had been a bad year, and in addition to famine
there were enemy troops on the borders of Salmon,
their unfriendly neighbors near the Mountain of Yore
and the King was near certain that his land was done for.

So he needed a messenger to save their lands
and he sought out a hero from the kingdom’s bands.
But each made excuses, for this and for that,
One said, “My hair’s funny,”
and “I can’t wear a hat.”
A second, who resisted, said his nose was too fat!

The king tried reason, and he also tried terror,
but quickly realized that the latter’s an error,
so he promptly decided to appeal to God,
’cause these were strange people, these people of Podd,
for nothing was wrong… though each thought he was odd.

The king finally saw, although quite peculiar,
that the land would be lost — including their ruler! —
if he couldn’t find someone to carry out this task,
but there seemed no one else in his land left to ask.

Yet the Kingdom was saved, it turned out in the end,
all because the king knew that to save his own skin
he would have to step down from his throne, to the street,
and even though he didn’t like his own feet,
he became a great leader by hiding it inside
and he ran ‘cross the hills to the far other side
to bring back an army or some kind of troop
to finish forever this enemy poop.

I guess that is why some are kings, some are not.
We’re all quite the same, and we’re all that we’ve got.

 

    * * * * *

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

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Hijo pródigo de la desgracia, Poetry by Francisco Fernández

No he vivido una guerra,
no he notado en mis manos el peso de la carne
y nada más.
No he respirado la ceniza,
ni los gritos me asaltan por las noches;
no he sentido la vulnerabilidad de la trinchera
ni el temblor del rifle ante mi enemigo.

Genre: Spanish Civil War, philosophical, social, motivational.

Hijo pródigo de la desgracia by Francisco Fernández

No he vivido una guerra,
no he notado en mis manos el peso de la carne
y nada más.
No he respirado la ceniza,
ni los gritos me asaltan por las noches;
no he sentido la vulnerabilidad de la trinchera
ni el temblor del rifle ante mi enemigo.

Sin embargo, eso no impide
que me sienta como un ángel
con el culo lleno de metralla.
Los libros me han susurrado la desgracia
de ser esclavo de esta historia,
de la Historia de España,
de la Gran Historia Universal.

No he sentido el frío del exilio
ni la orfandad de la infancia robada.
No merezco cartas ni medallas.
Sin embargo, no creo que mi lucha no tenga sentido
por estar lejos de las balas,
por ser mi espejo el campo de batalla.
La guerra a la que me enfrento cada día
es controlar al animal que habita mi estómago,
y prepararme para, llegado el momento,
impedir que la Historia se repita.

 

    * * * * *

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

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

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.

 

    * * * * *

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

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

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

 

    * * * * *

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

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

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?

    * * * * *

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

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

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.

* * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Thought Nazi’s, Poetry by Benzuko

It pays well to be scared, it’s easy to make enemies when your thoughts are shared. Just one wrong word and everyone will see, the true price you pay for wanting to be free. Most of the haters are only in it for their careers, pretending to be hurt and lying about their fears.

Genres: Dark, Social Philosophy, controversy, Rhyme

Thought Nazi’s

It pays well to be scared, it’s easy to make enemies when your thoughts are shared. Just one wrong word and everyone will see, the true price you pay for wanting to be free. Most of the haters are only in it for their careers, pretending to be hurt and lying about their fears. When you stand against the mob you’re a hero without a cape, meanwhile the feminists conspire and accuse all men of rape. You are a harasser now locked up with no key, the feminists are in control and always will be. Our message must be clear to the heads of Twitter, the thought Nazi’s will not stop until all opinions are one sided and bitter.

By Benzuko

Twitter @Benzuko

* * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

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?

 

 

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

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.

 

 

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

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

Submit your POEM to the Poetry Festival: http://www.festivalforpoetry.com

WATCH POETRY READINGS (see what we can do when you submit):

WATCH POETRY MOVIES (see what we can do when you submit):