Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The most perfect
eyes are those
of the mind.
One can use
A knife to chop
A potato or a tomato.
Or getting off track
On can use it
To stab people
In the back!
Nations can harness
Nuclear to generate power
Or to eliminate all
Also to tear down many
A tower.

The double-faced
Supper powers
That uphold imperialism
To meet their ends
Subtly cultivate
And promote terrorism.

They condemn it
Only if it rains
Havoc they
Don't permit!

Using terrorism
A midwife to a new religion
Or an independent nation
From all-quarters must be
Denied support and attention!
Google and read Ugandian prof Mahamood Mandani, Ethiopian prof Alem Eshete CIA  in Africa , Kenya's Prof Ali Mazuri' who killed democracy in Africa
Although fate,
Distance and time
Cruelly put asunder
You an indifferent girl
And I a self- concious
Boy lover
Two decades later,
Lately ,I saw you
A mesmeric lady
With a son
And a daughter,
Full of life
And laughter.

Once again
Your voice
In my cloud -
Shrouded heart
Rang a bell
To a paradise
That could
Change a hell.

Your sunrise
"I know you exist!" smile
Still has power
Me the cantankerous
To beguile!

Alighting from
Ultra-modern car,
Transfixed, I saw you
Recede far!
Timeless sight love
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i’ th’ house I find.
In this array ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

ደራሲዋ ለመጽሐፋ

ስትፀነስ ጀምሮ የቅርፅ ህፀፅ
የሚስተዋልብህ አንተ የአይምሮዪ ክፋይ፣
"ሀ" ብለህ ይህን ዓለም ስታይ፣
ታማኝነት በጎደላቸው ጓደኞቼ
እስክትውል አደባባይ ፣
ያልሻትከው እንዳንለያይ፣
ቡትቶ ደርበህ ፣
የህትመት ብርሀን አየህ
ስህተት ተብጠርጥሮ፣  
ለጀማ ሂስ የሚጋለጥበት አድሮ!

አንተ መልቲ (በህትመት)
ተመልሰህ መጥተህ
እናቴ  ስትለኝ
ቀላል ሀፍረት አላገኘኝ!
አይን ስለምትጎረብጥ  በእይታ ማእዘን፣
ገሸሽ  ማረግ  መርጬ ነበር አንተን፣
ግና የእኔ ስለሆንክ ስሱነት፣
ከቻልኩ እንዳርቅህ ገፋፋኝ፣ በሂደት፣  
ፊትህን ሳጥበው ወጡ  ህፀጾች ጎልተው ፣
ዝም ብያ  ሳፀዳ  ብቅ አለ ሌላ ህፀጽ እንግዳ
መገጣጠሚያህን ጎትቼ
እግር ልሰራልህ ስጥር፣
አካሄድህ ፋይዳ ቢስ የሚያሽቀነጥር!

እኔማ  በልክህ  ጨርቅ ቆርጬ
ልቀይርልህ ነበር ያን ቡትቶ፣
ግና ቤት የተፈተለ ሸማ
ላገኝ አልቻልኩም ከቶ፣
እናም ለብሰህ ይህን ድሪቶ፣
ከወፍ ዘራሾች ጋር ዙር ተደብልቀህ፣
ሃያሲዎች እንዳያገኙህ ሸሽተህ !

ስለአባትህ ከተጠየክ
ንገራቸው እንደሌለህ
ካስጨነቁህ ስለእናትህ ማንነት
"ልጅዋን የሽኘች በምስኪንነት !”
ተናገር   በድፍረት

አኒ ብራንድስተር


ትርጉም ዓለም ሃይሉ
ደራሲዎች አንዳንዴ ህቡ በሆነው የሰው ልጅ አይምሮ የሚንቀሳቀስን እንደነውር የሚታይ ሃሳብን በፈጠራ ስራ ይገልጻሉ። ስራው ቢታይብን ብለው ይፈራሉ ! /

Anne Bradstreet

Anne Bradstreet wrote in the Elizabethan literary tradition and became one of the first poets to write English verse in the American colonies
Writers and poets sometimes pen down what lurks in their subconscious and become afraid the vulnerability of print.I think most of us share this.I experienced this fact after I wrote my poem No ****** no ***!
why do some poems enjoy a mammoth hit but no comment?I think even if readers appreciate some poems they become afraid to associate themselves with the theme,which may be considered as a taboo .I also wonder why some poems are treated with a cold shoulder in some blogs and enjoy appreciation in others.Is it because a difference of taste?
Anyway the aforementioned poem has given me a good lesson; what about you?If you are interested on this issue goggle and read about psychoanalytical criticism and reader response criticism.Thank you for your patience
 May 2016 fasika berhane
ahmo
Wise women and men who have written books have always told me to focus on the light pouring from stars that kindle constellations,
but my eyes refuse to ignore every single bottle cap from the thousands of beer cans I've torn off out of a fear that I'll always scratch the backs of those who need it and that no one will ever return the favor.

My hurricanes will make no difference if the forest has already burned to the ground,
but moving my eyes upward into a sea of stars has been dulled by a neck brace that you embraced boldly when you broke every jar in the cabinet and didn't even think about helping me clean up this mess that turned my dreams into a reality where I wanted to learn from those that have read books and affixed my eyes to the constellations you gave me right here on Earth.

One day,
the thousands of metallic memorabilia reminding me of every hair I ripped out of my head over shattered glass will transform into seeds that will fertilize a field and yield a forest that anyone who ever needs tree for shelter can fall asleep within and dream about love without strings attached or knives in their backs.

I've removed your blade and recycled it,
transforming the blood from my spine into the stars that hold hands with all of the other bright lights composed of the pain that has defined your lives and then helped you shine in a constellation full of flowers blooming from fractured hearts.

We will watch from the treetops,
together.
Am I a bird or a fish?
Do I fly until I fall frozen dead.
Or do I swim every day in the same water like an aquarium fish.
I'm still wondering about this question...
We pursue happiness,
We experiment with our lives,
Hoping to find happiness,
When pain in the heart thrives,
It feels like we've never known happiness,
As people,
Pursuing happiness,
May be a fun adventure but its not simple,
We **** ourselves slowly,
Thinking we're having fun normally,
The pursuit to happiness
Is genuine if we go after our hearts desires,
Before the beating of the heart retires,
We ought to follow that which we feel as a passion.
No compensation will atone
For a gruesome betrayal
One has undergone,
Languishing under
Soul's darkest night alone.
A friend told me about this fact before I experienced it myself
There's no wasted moment of happiness,
Whatever makes you happy,do it!
You only have one life to live,
No one knows when they'll exit the face of planet earth,
But living a worthwhile life,a life you choose for yourself makes life worth it,
Take responsibility for your life,
Control it,its yours.
Let your actions be a pursuit to happiness atleast,
Happiness is worth searching for.
Count your joys,
Be happy,
Smile.
 May 2016 fasika berhane
ahmo
your cave was a pasture-
far beyond rugs made of the softest fabric skin could feel,
far along field of comfort resting in my arms.
oxygen just never seemed to make sense,
in scarcity.
stairs were just never worth the effort,
labor always coinciding with
disparity
and
nothing was ever clear.
you were as clear as the looking glass we have either all seen or will see when reality becomes as transparent as our minds wish it not to be,
so that we can wish it to be so.

I hope what I see is a dream where I can be
me,
wearing all of my skin, including
shards that you
took.
Next page