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Aneesh H Aug 19
Memories of a railroad era, bygone,
Nearly seven score years ago
Stories carried on the wheels,
With the coal and grain to go

A saga of the rail,
Now and again told
The charm of this tale,
Never growing old

Of modernity and mystery,
A kaleidoscopic visage:
An ensemble of hope and history,
A treasured, eclectic heritage

The railfan’s fervor: in full galore
In silent splendor, the glories of yore
In this humble house, come awake
A radiant reminiscence evokes!
Recently, a Railway Heritage Museum was opened at Hubballi, Karnataka: the HeadQuarters of South Western Railway. Hubballi or Hubli is a twincity of Dharwad, the erstwhile HeadQuarters Office of Southern Mahratta Railway, which was a private Railway Company founded in 1880s during British Colonial Rule.
I wrote a poem for the Museum, which is framed as a permanent exhibit on the Museum Wall!
Sarah Caitlyn Jun 14
The illusion of elegance,
copied from her mother.
Childhoods left undealt with,
but she wears her traumas
around her neck in that
beautiful southern style
passed down from her mother.
Enforces her new rules,
ignoring the past that got her there
for a new sense of priority.
Her pearls are lost,
sold long ago by someone else,
and she has forgotten
what they stood for.
invisible umbilical chord
ties me to you
feeds me love
even in your death

i inherited your fight    
to make sense of the nonsense
you live in my rebellion
against the world

i’m bleeding out screams through
words on the paper
if I don’t make sense that’s because
death doesn’t either.
gia sanchez Dec 2019
Heritage is a big part of everyone's lives,
My heritage i used to hide like a disguise.
I was always ashamed of being Hispanic,
having good hair and good skin,
I never looked at myself and loved what was within.
I was ashamed of my last name that belonged to my father who left,
see, that's the Hispanic way causing me so much stress.
I look up to my mother who has always been there,
She didn't need no man to succeed.
I wanted to be like my mom so bad, a true Hispanic queen.
this poem was made about my mother. It reminded me how much my mom means to me and how she always did it on her own not needing anyone to help her.
Tizzop Nov 2019
will you protect our
heritage?

will you tell mom the
truth about us?

would you die for
me when they shoot at
us again?

last time nine
bullets hit me as i hustled
to save
tizzop
youtube: "ghost ship soundtrack 02 santos dies" (gotz to stay alive tizzop)
We board on the lazy sea crawler,
us cowards, in tea and cream and glory.
Martha, hands in her hair, in her sweet age;
We lurch, cold, remaining in sweeter earth,
And I into Sam's cloud of august.
We are hearts only bent on fame,
While the ashes of our cousins —
A new lineage in lieu of dirt —
Begs us in their choral aching for a keening.
Title means "Wonderland."
I chose a paragraph at random from an Irish translation of Alice's Adventure's in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. I then "translated" the paragraph into a poem based solely on the sound of the words, word by word, rather than their meaning. This was the original paragraph:
"Bhí bord arna leagan faoi chrann os comhair an tí agus bhí an Giorria Márta agus an Haitéir ina suí aige: bhí Luch Chodlamáin ina suí eatarthu agus í ina sámhchodladh, agus bhí an bheirt eile ag baint feidhm aisti mar chúisín, a n-uilleanacha ina luí uirthi, agus iad ag comhrá le chéile os a cionn." (tr. Nicholas Williams)
Amaris Oct 2019
My hair is black and yours is yellow
But they never call it that;
Blonde, or like spun gold
Stunning, precious, unattainable.
But you have it,
Like I’ll never have you.
My hair is black but my skin
Is yellow
They call it that
“Slant-eyed”, “foreign”, “unnatural”
At eighteen, I broke black locks with bleach
(I’ve always wanted to be blonde)
And it didn’t look natural at all
I will never be blonde, I will always be
Yellow.
They ask: What are you?
“American, like you”
But they roll their eyes
They tell me to forget my native language
And I don’t know how to tell them I already am
Black and yellow
I think of me then think of bees, and recall
Being stung in the first grade, and how
Ever since, I’m paralyzed at the thought
Of black, and yellow
Black and yellow
Save the bees! on shirts and posters
But no one is saving me.
Mystic Ink Plus Jun 2019
First
They will try
To destroy the culture

Then, they will spray
The venom

Then, they will try
To **** your soul

Then, they will ask
Who you are?

That instant
You may remember
Who you were?

No one
I am
Nothing will left
Last of a dying breed
Living in the past
You may have to say
Genre: Dark Raw
Theme: light me a pyre burn me until I'm ash
Kaiden A Ward Jun 2019
Battered and alone, pushed far to the back,
sat my grandmother's worn writing desk,
forgotten in the shadow of her passing,
buried in the depths of her cluttered garage.
The surface is still scared with her stories,
never told,
and her secrets remain hidden in the stubborn locked drawers,
so like her.
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