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Poems

Kuzhur Wilson Apr 2019
In your place,

I planted a *******.

On the southern border

Of a dilapidated, porous house.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I used leaves that have decayed

More than the usual

As manure.

I took handfuls of the sand,

That was measured out

For construction of the house,

And spread over its base,

Without any measure.

I diverted the rain,

That was flowing away lazily,

To its base.

******* trembled

As love swelled up within.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I kissed every leaf,

Without anyone seeing it.

Its veins looked like yours,

When I read them gently.

And when the eyes welled up

I made a ridge under them

With my soiled hands.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will nurture it with love.

I will fight with ants and beetles

And even butterflies.

If it ever droops,

I will pamper it with sweet talks

And pet names uttered in its ear.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

I will stand guard to it

In rain and shine.

I will tattoo on my palm

Its green, branches and leaves.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

Tears

Spittle

*****

I will pour out the soul of life

Just for it.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

In nights, when I really lose it,

I will hug it and cry my heart out.

I will shower it with kisses,

Drenched with tears and spittle.

I will lie down on its lap,

When the eleven bells crumble.

And when I feel naughtier

I will close my eyes

Get inside it

And hide in there.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day,

It will flower.

And sing aloud, yellow yellow yellow.

The wind, birds and all creepers around

Will take up that song.

When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.

In your place,

I planted a *******.

One day.



One day

I will open my day

With its sight

And fade away to next life.

It will wait for me

Till the next life.







‘ When it rains,

Seeds sprout in the fields.

When the bugle sounds,

The dead come alive.’

A requiem sung at funeral of Christians.
Kuzhur Wilson

trans. Anand Haridas
RW Dennen Jul 2015
Bugle call in cadence be
spread your deep sincerity

Reverberate its call
within our minds
of good deeds done
for better times

Heroes of every walk of life
remembered by bugle sounds
into vesper night
It's sounding love of mankind
and sacrifice
About everyday people
like you and me
About brass sounds that triumph liberty
It's sounding our land, not laid bare,
by the right to speak
It's sounding about lives laid down
that freedoms seek
And through that bugle call we see
in taps that sound great dignity

We must fight
not to relinquish
our hard earned truth
in bugle calls of our youth

Now i lay my bugle
down to sleep
And still i hear that
sound
that haunting sound
forever be
that ushers forth
our dignity
Hang strong "We the People" have the masses. This poem was meant for
people like Martin Luther King who gave forth positive contributions and died
in helping mostly the middle class and poor; have a good 4th.
Loraine Fromm Aug 2011
THE SILVER BUGLE

HE CAME FROM OUT OF NOWHERE, IN THE DARKNESS OF THE NIGHT
WITH A SILVER BUGLE IN HIS HAND HE STEPPED INTO THE LIGHT
HE STOOD FOR A MOMENT IN SILENCE, THEN IN A VOICE SO DEEP AND CALM
HE SAID "IVE COME TO PLAY FOR MY MATES WHO DIED IN VIETNAM"

SOME HEADS WERE BOWED AND WAITING AS THE BUGLER TOLD HIS TALE
BUT WHAT THEY HEARD WERE THE EERIE STRAINS OF A 'WHITER SHADE OF PALE'
HE PLAYED THE SONGS FROM DAYS GONE BY AND THE BUGLE FOUND ITS HOME
AMONG THE FIELDS OF SORROW WHERE HIS MATES HAD FLOWN

THE SINGLE NOTES UPON THE AIR WERE LIKE AN EPITAPH
AS HE TOOK US ALL THE WAY WITH HIM, BACK INTO THE PAST
HE BLEW THAT BUGLE LIKE A HORN AND THE SOUND WAS PURE AND CLEAN
AS HE PLAYED THE HAUNTING MELODY  'I'LL SEE YOU IN MY DREAMS'

WE COULD HEAR THE GHOSTLY VOICES CALLING IN THE NIGHT
AND SEE THE FLAMES AROUND THEM, IN THE JUNGLE BURNING BRIGHT
BUT MOST OF ALL WE FELT THE PAIN OF THE MAN LEFT TO REMIND
THE WORLD THAT BACK IN VIETNAM HIS MATES WERE LEFT BEHIND

AS THE BUGLER CALLED FOR HIS LAST AND FINAL NOTE
WE COULD HEAR THE ECHO OF A GHOST
AS ANOTHER BUGLE PLAYED 'THE LAST POST'