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It’s been told she has the heart of the Sun A bright bronze sphere
That can never turn down fun
Brazen is she towards those who stand in her way
Guided by faith, her feet never stray
No matter the currents or the strength of the Tides
She goes low when they fly high
Like Hawksbill, Green, Loggerhead and Leatherback
She attains the longevity they endure
Her voice is as sweet as the Black Pineapple
Her beauty resembles the Antiguan hibiscus
Some might even say more
For her beauty is something you can’t ignore
Whenever one door closes
She makes one more open
Always giving faith a fighting chance
Whenever the option arises
She always chooses to DANCE!
As the soca rhythm flows into her blood steam
And the bright colors of carnival collide
There outshining the others
You can find the person I call my “MOM”
My Antiguan Queen
Always representing red white black blue and gold pride
IncholPoem Jan 10
Today  is  tomorrow's  
fourth night.



Believe  it  or
    not
Yesterday   has  had
flowers   to  gift  you.




      Hence   the  coming
           season   of  February
would  be   very

    nasty!



       Believe   it  or  

                  not
Tomorrow's   tomorrow
would   be my
first   guest.


  Let  him  permit
to  fly   winter-kites
on   Indian  sky.
Ken Pepiton Nov 2018
so. so rare. such as you who seek some thing everyone knows
so you may share it with those infected with denial.

---

I'll be the fool who risks belief and go on with the story flowing from my belly
before
my very augmented eyes

Wisdom is justified of her children,
said a nubian wizard
named John Joyce.
No relation to James.

Same general era, I met Adam Funmaker. He showed me
an article in Rolling Stone that mentioned me
June 7, 1973, idea of me, not me,
actually,

that was me. the guy with ears that weren't garbage cans,
which had been the liturgical reply to
words deemed too filthy to say or hear,

To this day I don't care for the taste.

This story fiber began with Adam Funmaker being real, and my feeling many folk would never allow a man with such a name to have been,

much less to have been, my friend. who made my silver wedding ring.

A real man, father of many sons and daughters, still
with us
to this day,
This telling
dedicated in my lodge, my strong tower, my kiva,

To Adam Funmaker, I fan this cloud, be magnified magi.
From my desert you blessed with more than water.

A humbler man I've never met. A scrimshaw artist of great renown among collectors of such, for his technique.
It seemed magic, the photo-realism
he could attain to,
pins and hand and ink and string and light, his only tools,

the light was modified to meet the needs of Adam's ageing eyes
He was sixty-two when I thought with him last,

and sixty-two was older then than now,
he used to ask me questions I had not asked myself.

I only knew him for the space
of a tick
with point of pin pricking
ivory,  ttttttttttttt ttttt ttt ttttttt tttt far more
than 300 dpi,
But magic was not allowed to be the reason for
the power of reality in his work.

How do you do this? I asked, from a state of ad-mire

Opaque projector.

Ah, secret, he coulda kept it and been thought
amazing, sender of men in search of hows
denied whys, but he didn't

he told me the trick, as if his hand and eye and mind
were taken for granted, acknowledged by being

right used before my unaugmented eyes.

His gift he had received and owned,
not a thing to boast about, like a boy.

He was looking at me, something I remember
this way, a point, a reflection in the eye
that made images of the ideas of men
past
seem in the wind I go on to claim as my inheritance.
That's the scene from here, much was different,
most likely.

Adam Funmaker's clansmen from the past
breathed, nearly, their blessing, the hope

on ivory etched so nearly fractally real you can see
a reflection in Sitting Bull's eye staring

at a 440 stainless steel, razor-edged blade, never used.

A knife made for the image on the handle,
A magic Adam Funmaker portrait of a noble illiterate
chief among noble illiterates whose stories
have been told ten thousand years.

The Greeks fears were warranted.
Writing did shorten memories.
But it gave stories freedom to wend and find points

upon which they be told, to this day,
for no real reason, same as sunsets and beauty in general.

the knife I was looking at is depicted on the web
https://www.worthpoint.com/worthopedia/adam-funmaker-scrimshaw-native-1835351935
My wife still has her wedding ring, I lost mine,
in the desert or the storm or the fire, I can't remember losing it.
I never wrote an ode. This feels like how they may have wonce been taught when memories were the realm of story and songs
Debanjana Saha Aug 2018
This Independence day
I pledge to be-
Be Bold
Be Joyful
Be Helpful
Be Creative
Be A Better Me
Be Independent

Happy Indian Independence Day!
We as Indians are celebrating our 72nd Independence Day and on this auspicious day I thought to celebrate it little differently, in my own way. To contribute a thought to make myself efficient not just for my country but for a better world in small little things whatever I do.
Lalima Yadav Jun 2018
Each morning,

When I look into the mirror

I see you in my eyes

Yes true! That's another place

Where you reside.

All I wish to see more

Is to look at you

And your sweet smile.

I promise you that,

Through thick and thins of life.

It'll be me always

By your side

Helping you out to overcome

From your worst dilemmas.

Being your strength, your power

In the darkest scary nights.

Trust me on this.

Be it any of the craziest situations

But I'm going to be there with you.

I want to hear you

As long as you want me to listen.

Putting my best efforts

To be the best version

of your reflections

I am sure when I say that

I'll take the best care of you

Because as happy as you are

means that

I'm happy too.

No....never! I won't stop you

From exploring your heart

How could I?

I'm just the person

who would see you

Getting better as the day passes by.

Those days, when you'll be

Crying, silent or totally *******

Trust me, and then too

You'll find me nearest to you

Wiping out all your worries

And trying to make you smile.

I swear, at your most vulnerable state

I'll make you feel the most loved.

Those moments you'll take

The most important decisions of your life

I'll help you to stay up until the mid-night.

Even…if you ever fail

I'll remind you that

Darling! You are my HERO forever.

Maybe! Someday it happens

when you might forget that

How much you really mean to me

Believe me! Even that day too

I'll tell you and remind you

That I'm in love with you.

Nothing could set me apart

From you,

But the death, as it's powerful

And until I exist

I’ll care for you always

Remember that

You're my dearest friend.

Maybe! In this whole journey

I could not come across you

But then nothing in this world

Could stop me

Flying in love

truly, deeply, madly

With YOU; my hero!!!

©️ Lalima Yadav

Thank you very much for stopping by. Radiate happiness. :)
I request you all to please let me know what impression does this poem will left on a guy to whom such a piece of poetry will be dedicated. Highly obliged to you all.
Bismay Mohanty Jun 2018
A name that lionized once
Exemplifying crystal goodness
Dwindles now amidst the crowd
For an instinct extravagance
Who loved once, now fear
The name that lies in darkness.

‘The culprit’ now reminisces
All that made his past.
Endurance long did he face but
Long didn’t his freedom last.
Joy comes slow and with struggle
Folly! He wanted it fast.

The culprit earlier envied people
With love, money and other wealth
Unlike winners, he failed to stand alone
In himself he did lose faith.
Burning desires made evil rhetorical
Pity the age evil ignite stealth.

Forbidden fruits he dared to reach
Stranger he felt on being a deuce.
He cherished at the illusion
Of walking on a supreme avenue.
Everything comes with a price, he forget
Now the Devil waited for his revenue.

Blindfolded by the espy of interim wealth
Wealth of humanity has become a fiction.
Just of the self he kept ruminating on
Never thought of the innocent’s malediction
He who snatched several dreams by his desire
Awaited for him the much deserved destination.

In his cell, his sleep now breaks
As the moonlight seeks him in murky.
The joy in seasons are lost forever
Burning passions depleted of intensity
Time passed with thoughts of past and future
Alas! Immature insanity changed his destiny.
Rizna M Rameez Jun 2018
The shores of Manhattan
He left behind
To track down a dolphin’s remind

He rowed and rowed
Wiping sweat off his brow
A Red Indian hunter of old

Deeper down the seas
He finally sees
The tail of a swish in his hold

And steadily comes
To meet his old smoke
His Red Indian hut and bone fork

But what he sees there
He finally stares
For the bonfire and cottage no more
             At the shorelines of our home
             Towering above, a million white dove
             Were skyscraping buildings of York.
15.11.2017
A Red Indian who missed whole centuries on a hunt of his, only to return to shores that were no longer his.
Sakar Tiwari May 2018
कौन होते है आप
घूर कर उसको देखने वाले
कपड़ों पर उसके भौंकने वाले
सोच को थोड़ी खुद की सुधारो
आंखो की हैवानियत ,बाहर निकालो
निकलेगी खुद की भी बेटी एक दिन
इन्हीं बेशरम सड़कों पर
तब सवाल होगा तेरा खुद से
क्या सलामत लौटेगी वो घर पे ?
जा कर मंदिर में आप जो
ढोंग हजारों रचते हो
लक्ष्मी दुर्गा का नाम बोल कर माथा अपना रगड़ते हो
देवी समझ कर ही बंद कर दो तुम
ये हवस अश्लीलता का व्यापार
वरना विनाश को तेरे धर लेगी वो मां काली का अवतार
एक सुंदर तस्वीर है वो ,अस्तित्व लेने दो उसे
एक ख्वाब है वो ,पूरा होने दो उसे
एक खुशी है वो ,खुल कर हसने दो उसे
एक सितारा है वो ,चमकने दो उसे
खुदा की खूबसूरती है वो,
सिर्फ लड़की नहीं किसी की बहन
किसी की बेटी है वो
जीने दो उसे ।।

#साकार
Tsunami Apr 2018
what my ancestors gave me

(the curves of my body
the curls in my hair
the swell of my *******
the wetness between my legs)

was not meant to be colonized.
stop them from eating me alive
Sneha Thakur Apr 2018
With color painted on my skin ,
I walk amidst these clouds ,
Too high , too scared to fall ,
To fall onto more melanin.
The more the melanin the more alien I become , they say.
I try to soak these clouds into me ,
Like I absorbed the Indian in my folks .
Like I carry a bunch of them beneath this skin.
Like my taste buds will always crave for more spice.
Like all my girlfriends will always have less clothes on than me.
Like it is all I know.
Like I am always the one suffering with the wrong accent.
Like an accent could be right or wrong.
As if , proper has a sound of its own.
I come from the land of red soil
Soil being red from the blood .
I come from the air ,
Filled with all the carbon and heat
I come from the waters of Indian ocean .
But , mainly I come from my country , my India
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