America is beyond blessed
yet we are willing to confess
how there are thousands of soldiers
and other cultures
who have nothing to eat
But we don't realize the way we treat
This rapidly growing problem
A reason why we have fallen
So far away from a place
Of mercy and grace
We continue to argue about those poor people
are we complete fools?
Actually do something
Help others rise from nothing
Instead of bathing in your luxurious ways
begin to pave
what will be the road for a new society
which will start a revolution
Of the ones who find a solution
to the disgusting amount of poverty
Lets not do this moderately
Lets make a difference now
Because true love is how
We can assist
Something we need to not resist
Stop debating who's right or wrong
Because that won't change what's been happening all along
End hunger everywhere
Because were more than capable to share.
Stop thinking of yourself
Start to help.

Do you argue your point
To argue for love
Or do you argue
Just because
Do you really care
For every American out there
What are you truly fighting for
Helping the millions poor?
Or are you morphing with society
Doing things unjustifiably
Our hypocritical democracy
A nation full of dishonesty
Soldiers dying left and right
Parents send their kids to school with fright
But all we care about are insignificant things
I’m told, “the ends justify the means”
A country full of hate
Keeping people out because of race
American is so blessed
But most are too obsessed
Many can’t even imagine
How a nation like us can have no compassion
We do not know others lives
For we walk vigilantly in our opportunistic thrive
So forgetful of where we’ve come
For a God whos love cannot be undone
To give back what he gave us
Something we always fail to discuss
We blindly became a nation
Who has no purpose for its creation
Future president, can you do it?
Will you help us get through it?
Maybe you can change it someday
Please. Change us back to who we were yesterday.

God dips his head beneath the murky surface of war and blood searching for his children.

His children. They cry out to Him, accuse Him, have forgotten Him, need Him.

They are lost in the muck and the filth and the smog of this nation that throws the first stone; and he weeps as He plucks His children up out of the blood and the dirt and sets them down into the tower of Babel where the people shout “There is no room!” and cry out to Him, accuse Him, have forgotten Him.

This nation that shoots first and asks questions later, the nation of “not my problem,” and moving on.

He touches their heads as they fall asleep, he speaks to them and grants them dreams, and they turn away on their beds of lost memories as they struggle not to hear, not to feel… not to feel even the breathing, the heartbeat, of their lover, their partner, their other half as they reach out in their tossing and turning of nightmares of a nation that does not rest.

The nation who binds their hands in the wires of computers and keyboards, the nation that eats the apple and – in the perceived absence of their Father – raise up false books, sing of false stars, rampage, adulterize and falsify amongst each other always looking for the one, the next one, the next one, is this your card, is this your card, is this your card?

But you’ve had your own card, your own self, in your back pocket, you’ve forgotten what it looks like and now you cannot find the match.

They way worn nation that rests, God bless the rest, by swallowing drug after drug after drink after drink, only to find that rest and that peace just in time to feel the **** of the wires on their bound hands drag them back up again.

So they swallow more drugs, and more drinks, and let their minds wander and wish for their family, but when they go home they think of their labor what’s next for they must prepare, they must keep moving ever forward, never looking back.

And so let the frustration grow.

And the family ever fall.

The family, the nation, that drowns beneath the flood of a weeping God who must break His promise, for His children are lost to Him beneath the feet of so many bearing the mark of Cain.

The feet that do not rest. The feet that keep on walking past the empty forests, the old man on the street, the blind woman crying, the sick starving child sitting next to them.

And these people, these poor people, they sit and they wait and they cry out “why,” they cry out “Help”

…For their Father cannot find them in the murky, ****** water that covers this broken nation.

Bakit ba
Ganito sa pinas
Kung saan masyado tayong tutok sa tamang landas

Landas na di naman natatahak
Pagkat lahat ng pangako ng mga naging pangulo ay puro palpak

Ano nga ba ang tamang landas
Palagi na lamang itong bukambibig ng mga taong malalaki ang bibig ngunit maliliit at malalamig naman ang mga puso.

Wagas kung makapagsabi ng tamang landas
Kailan ba magwawakas ang pagpapatag sa tamang landas
Tila masyado nang nabigyang importansya ang paghahanda sa tamang landas
Na naaaksya na ang pera ng ating mga probinsya


Ang mga pangakong napako
Ang mga pulitkong napako na sa pagtahak sa landas na ito
Na tila nakakalimutan na nilang isama ang sambayanan sa pagtahak nito
Ang mga mamamayang pilipino na naubusan na ng lakas
Pagkat wala na halos mailagay sa hapagkainan na bigas
Sa walang katapusang pag taas ng tax upang mabuo at mapatag lang ang sinasabing tamang landas

Mga pukitikong
Masyado nang naging overly attached sa tamang landas
Na tila konting lubak lang kuha agad sa kaban ng bayan... Sa pera ng mga mamamayan.. Upang magpagawa ng bagong daan. Mas matuwid na daan. Wow. Gusto nyo ba ng sapak?


Bakit hindi nalang hayaan ang malubak na daan?
Bakit hindi nalang hayaan ang konting baluktot sa daan?

Basta siguraduhin lang natin na tama ang ating pupuntahan.
Na pagdating natin sa ating paroroonan, paglingon natin ay wala na tayong babalikan dahil wala na tayong naiwan.
Magkaroon man ng galos sa paglalakbay, ang sakit ay kayang pawiin ng haplos ng kapwa pilipinong naging kasama mo sa pagtahak ng daan na tnahak ng bawat pilipino.

Ang kailangan namin ay isang pinuno
Hindi pangulo na ituturo lamang ang tamang daan habang nakasakay sa kanyang mamahaling sasakyan at hindi na namamalayan na kanya na palang naiwan ang mga mamamayan.

The sky is tinted crimson red
Like the blood of our lost men
One was shot walking down the road
Another was killed for slipping codes
Every night at half past ten

The fragile buildings are crumbling
Like the bones of our lost men
One was blasted into the air like breaths of ash
Another was flattened as the houses crash
The blame is on dutiful artillerymen

The air is choking, hopeless and dead
Like the eyes of our lost men
One fell with a scream on his lips
Another drowned with a sinking ship
Never to see light again

The bombs are loud, and they go fast
Like the hearts of our remaining men
One is trapped under heaps of rubble
Another is injured, and clumsily stumbles
“Lord God, save our souls, amen.”

There is so much misery in the world that we are becoming quite hardened and callous to that constant plucking of our hearts.

Once
A man with broad vision
dreamt...
About the land of pures
Then
a man with excellent leadership skills
stood up to fulfill
the first man's dream
he gathered the scattered people
he fought for what was
righyfully ours
he turned the rouges into NATION
Togather they
suffered
sacrificed
bled
but yet the remained strong
holding each others back
against the cunning enemy
they were pure by heart
they had the golden soules
faith was running in their veins
thus they were granted
after years of hardship
with the most beautiful gift
the first man's dream was now a reality...!!

the man who dreamt IQBAL
the man who lead JINNAH
the land of pure PAKISTAN
the nation created PAKISTANIS
and this is OUR story !!

Independence Day !!
PROUD TO BE A PAKISTANI !!

Policy or personal
questions? In the poem Two White Wines
a child adopted from Cambodia
is a thing of beauty, and so she is
as she showed herself to be yesterday. Lovely. However
the poet implies market, i.e. economic, forces brought her
      to America
when, as her parents know, it was war,
the sad Vietnam War or the War with America
as I think the Vietnamese remember it.

Honor and bravery
equal courage. Reed Whittemore's poem about
a photo of Viet Cong prisoners, stoic, defiant
under an American officer's boot
expresses admiration for the enemy. Then and now
a dangerous sentiment. Your fellow citizens, denizens
of convenience stores, even your family,
may come to see you as the enemy. Once ostracized,
      the other,
not belonging to the loved ones, you're not long for
this world of dew.

**** and ***
Ken says, describes America's culture, not its poets
or jazz. What's worth fighting for?
Your land, your right to be stupid on your land.
Now there is one large land, one people
and many. The vote is a crude, monosyllabic grunt,
no way to express the subtle degrees of experience
our long lives represent. Thus,
it is good, when the family gathers, to talk,
each person speak
of what has been forgotten, forgiven and forgone.

Trading or taking
every family must be tithed or taxed.
Every man who finds his meaning in war
will be pained into wisdom and gentleness.
Who comes home
comes home to a future that bypassed the fighting, or did it?
The oil must be sold,
even Saddam or Osama cannot withhold it.
You can drink your quota of water
and still your heart can ache.

Empire or democracy
of nations? We can choose to be the reigning kings
between the last empire and the next
or we can implement a vision
of collective deliberation.
America the seeing-eye dog,
not America the junkyard dog.
Going question by question
toward predictable, transparent governance.
Example: How can a people become a nation
without resorting to violence or incurring violent reaction?

Ghughuti,the bird has come
Flying all across the hills
Far away from my land
She bought with her the blessings
Of my mother,for me to return

Ghughuti what you got for me
She said" your wife's tears
As she could hardly speak"
Tell me Ghughuti
How are my children
"Your children are very proud of you, they know that you are doing this for the country"

When you go back
Tell them that I'll come back soon
I miss them but duty comes first
My nation needs me and I must serve

Tell my land and the river
Watch for me, till I return
I owe a lot to you too
But first , let me finish this bigger mission

Manisha

A shadow cast over days past,
like a mast spread for a wind blast
hailing from the wintery north.
Don't think it done until the day's won.
The mistake was made,
the spider web spun over a grenade
that landed on our shores.
They attacked our backyard,
yet we don't act scarred,
we brush it off despite
their continued shelling,
like we can refuse what they're selling.
Telemarketers don't send tapes yelling
that we're all gonna go to hell.
Only enemies that know
we have already fell.