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Äŧül Sep 24
The BJP has impressed me,
Welfare is their priority,
They have improved as a political party.

They used to be the capitalist kind,
Completely rightwinger it used to be,
They used to be crony capitalists.

But they have improved,
Their worth they proved,
India administrated by them will be happy.

They have made sacrifices,
Who can forget Shyama Prasad Mukherjee?
Once they know him - they can't.

Who can forget Atal Bihari Vajpayee ji,
Or the living legend, Lal Krishna Advani ji,
Or the fallen soldiers, Sushma ji or Arun ji?

We have many more leaders,
All distinguished in their spirit of Indianness,
Narendra Damodardas Modi, their scion.

They used to be plain capitalists, yes,
But now they are very different,
They are the Left of Right.
India, as a majority, is very happy and positive.

My HP Poem #1773
©Atul Kaushal
Jonathan Moya Sep 23
Rapid City wears its patriotism like a shroud.
Corner streets are populated with less than
life-size statues of past presidents
squinting at the distant Black Hills
where the grandeur of Mt. Rushmore
casually crumbles their bronze dreams.

Wax settlers, loggers and gold miners
stake claims with souvenir hunters
touring a mine, panning for fool’s gold.

In nearby Custer, 75 breaths  from Wounded Knee,
shops hawk Chief Joseph, Sitting Bull, Geronimo t-shirts
proclaiming them “ The Original Founding Fathers.”
Mixed in are those in star-spangled letters and fireworks
proudly streaming “Welcome to America. Now Speak English.”

Rushmore was dynamited from a cliff
by a creator who spent the rest of his life
erecting grand Confederate gestures
out of ****** Georgia quartz monzonite—
finished and opened 100 years to the day
after Abraham Lincoln’s assassination.  

Thirty minutes from Rushmore, existing in its shadow
on private land filled with dusty trails,
unfinished after seventy years,
probably still unfinished after twenty  more,
facing away from these great stone faces,
emerging from the side of great Thunderhead Mountain,

on an ivory stead with a mane of flowing river and wind,
exists the Oglala Lakota warrior Tasunke Witko
the worm of Crazy Horse the Old and Rattling Blanket Woman,
sibling of Little Hawk and Laughing One, memory of the spirit of
Black Buffalo and White Cow who walked with an Iron Cane,
all enclosed with him in this massive breath of white stone.

The history of this great Indian space stretches the land,
four times higher than the Statue of Liberty,
extending beyond the warrior frown, the pointing left arm.
The horse’s ear alone is the size of a rusty  reservation bus.
When finished it will be the largest sculpture in history,
bigger than the land, breath and all of Indian memory.

It was the Vision Quest of Chief Henry Standing Bear to show the whites that the red man had great heroes, too.
In a man named Korczak he found a kindred spirit,
a storyteller in stone, a survivor of Omaha Beach,
who when the first wife faltered, found a second
who gave him enough children to carry, sculpt the Bear Dream.  

The big chief’s face is still the only finished part.
Korczak’s wife and children toil with the rest,
struggling to capture the essence of a warrior
who never allowed his shadow to be snared
in the false glow of the white man’s light,
trusting only the rain beams that fall

onto his people, mountains, plains and buffaloes,
onto Paha Sapa, “the heart of everything that is,”
where the Lakota huddled while the world was created,
now a land of broken treaties and dying dreams,
drenched in the dust of tears underneath,
while this white face torn from red gazes East.
Wounded Knee is not only the sight of an 1800’s Indian Massacre but the rumored burial spot of Sitting Bull.

The grand confederate gesture refers to Stone Mountain park, a Mt Rushmore etched with the faces of the Confederacy: Robert E. Lee,
ARCH Sep 15
Displeased with exhausted mind
Though ugliness embodies perfection
Of the creation majesty empower
The whites aren't right
And black ain't beautiful
Questioning the creativity
And erroneous concept of beauty
We somewhere fades our own reality
Indulge with your voice inside
Whose raising the vocals of equality
Whose antonishing signs
Are reflection of humanity
Now the quest of questions
Is out of answers inherently
Yet hopes are serene enough
To resist a human world
And here the wrong things
Are done with good intentions.
aviisevil Sep 3
why do men die for other men ?
what compels them to give up their lives for the lives of their fellow men ?

is it love ? is it duty ? or is it just plain madness ? is it that bond of blood ? or a promise to be better ? or is it simply what being a human is ?


the same men capable of destroying a million lives in pursuit of their own ideology ? the same men who for the purpose of their own greed and need can ignore the very definitions of civility and liberty and justice.


can we still call them men ?


what is happening at this hour in this nation, a nation which is thousands of years old and in making; isn't different from what has happened in the past and unfortunately that is going to happen in the unsuspecting future.

people are turning to an ideology that not only imprisons the free bird in the sky, but also retaliates if it so chooses to lay on a different branch.

diversity isn't celebrated anymore, but rather is frowned upon by the masses, who believe that past holds no relevance over the future.

acceptance, and the very creed upon which the great men who came before us, and made us who we are today - their legacy and wisdom is being demolished, like cards in the winds; and just like the structures of the ancient, for they no longer are painted with the colours we are familiar with today.


sheep and wolves alike, are being chased by the blood hounds, cornering every whisper with words of the system, a system that has been diseased from the inside, infecting the very veins of this great nation that has stood the test of age and it's many a poisons for millennia and more.


bit by bit the great walls of knowledge and of the enlightened spirits are being razed down by a mere fool in different costumes, performing in a circus build upon the ashes of the innocent and the innocence of the communities that now long for blood.


the very nature of this great and grave divide, is unnatural, passed down by the same set of hands that once pulled the chains and carried with them - forcefully, a plight of millions, suppressed and then set aside fanatically, all in the name of a devotional creed.

lizards in boxes pretending to be voices of the free and humane, casting their spells on the fragile and a blind audience, numb by all the back and forth between the gods, and as always, only the peasant suffers.


how many more homes must vanish before we realise there's no magic in the disappearing of colours, and the despairing remains of the one's gone, painted across the streets in black and white, begging for somebody to give them their proper funeral.

it is men who take life, animals don't **** for their sins, they never have, for they don't know what it's like to be tamed by fire.

they'd rather burn, than become more like us.

maybe that tells it all, and maybe that is why, the devil may have horns and hoofs, but it never haunts and hunts the wild.


we are what we love, but we become who we hate, always - in the end, until something worse comes around to make things better.
for as long as there'll be men and the quest for freedom - empty pages shall be filled.
Jenny dance
in front
of eyes
that candy
is sweet
not butter
in sleeves
of her
patriot but
her belligerence
in trees
as she
stares the
ligament in
his ribs
in back
of Cajun
a sleeve in despair
Carl D'Souza Jul 22
Quapaw is an extinct language
of an American Indian tribe
of Arkansas U.S.A.

I wonder
how many other languages
have humans spoken throughout history
which are now extinct?

I wonder
what secrets
did these lost languages contain
about how to live
a joyful and happy life
within Destiny?
I was born
And I was flattened
It's my culture I think

Girls should be quiet and pretty
God forbid they should think

I should be lady-like
Respectful
And despite all this

I should take all the abuse
Of these men who just drink

So I'm a doormat
I grow up
People walking all over me

I keep my mouth sealed shut
And don't tell them what you see

But I will scream today
I will stop them now

I've been punished enough
You're being mean right now

And I am learning to unlearn
Everything that I've seen

But your white skin means
That you don't understand me

You weren't born fighting things
that can't be unseen

You are workplace
Skin-based
argument free

Im not discounting your struggles
I'm sure your life has been hard

I'm just saying
that certain phrases
You say
Hit me hard

Like a slap across the face
You discount my existence

You think your opinion is the only thing
That should be considered

Well EXCUSE ME.
I won't apologise
Because I EXIST.

I'm not a doormat today
But I can learn to forgive

If you apologise
And stop making me feel like this

There's no victims
In this victimless
*******

There is no poorer or worse off
Don't even think

I can't compare myself to you
at the kitchen sink

It's not quantifiable
I don't want to hear about your life

Because we will never have seen life
Through the same eyes

In life there's suffering
Otherwise what's the point

Just get over yourself
Let's both apologise.
The Indian black berries
Bitter sour, tad bit sweet
Humble fruit
Low in cost
Benefits high
Sold everywhere in the month of June

Bought it off from a vendor off the street
Especially sold these
Segregated in three baskets
Each priced as per the size, way too high from the market price
Quality not compromised

Does life treat you the same
Quality quantity, a few adjectives to name
Nuha Fariha Jun 29
To Mr Arnav Gupta,
Forgive me bhai, your embers are still
fanned alive in my memories you are
still walking in circles in Ellipse Park

Dear Mr Gupta,
Do you know what distance a flame can travel on a summer day?
How far the flame travels in the camera frame, how long it keeps?
Your flame ephemeral everlasting still walking still wake
Purians pyres that covered brown bodies in 1687

Dear Arnav,
Do you remember when Sita sat in her Agni Praskar in Ramayana?
How women still throw themselves in their husband’s funeral?
What were you trying to purify through the seven flames?
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