Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Spencer Dennison Aug 2014
There he stands.
He stands where the crows refuse to land
and the tumbleweed tumble around.
Where green is a foreign concept to the flora
that rises from the ashen ground
and the whole field has the atmosphere of a dead place,
forgotten by time.
He stands like a scarecrow that has outgrown it's post
Where most would fall, he stands tall,
like a lamp post, that provides no light at all.
His expression is aloof, but not in an oblivious way.
As if to say that his stoic-ness portrays a tortured wisdom
that makes his knowledge look more alike
to a ball and chain than a virtue or asset.
His composure is limp as if the glue that bands him together
is weeping away and the heavens push down upon him
with both hands.

His palms are loose, his shoulders are sails that he no longer flies.
His hair hangs loose and grey, framing dead and bloodshot eyes.
His jaw hangs but his lips remain tightly knit,
never to part and split their seams
lest you learn anything at all from him.
He has no jouyous thing to share with you.
No pleasant memories that he would care
to cast upon the wall like the beam of a film reel.
The insights he has to teach the world are ones
that would be massly rejected out of repulsion or denial.
You gain nothing from letting this man, most vile,
teach you about the world or society or anything likewise.
You lose something instead.
You lose the peace of mind that you take for granted
as you go about your daily grind.
You lose your ignorance, but only by using it
as the altar upon which to sacrifice your bliss.
He learned much and he certainly learned this.
He eventually started to learn about the things that matter
and by consequence he learned that in credence with them,
his life was a lie by comparison.
He learned that if we are woven by the spinners of the comos
than we will al be found threadbare.
And so, by lack of care, he pas payed the toll.
Filling the spaces of his mind,
and emptying the contents of his soul.

He is the Hollow Man.
He stands far from us in his distant field
knowing well that such a mind
is a much more dangerous weapon to wield.
If you see him whilst on your way,
at least trust me when I say,
that you do yourself a service by staying
far, far away.
StuKerr Jun 2014
Steve the ocelot
Works at the supermarket
But can't reach high shelves
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
Why is it that when I set out to write a poem
I end up writing a Scandinavian saga?
Why can't I write poetry that's short?

*Like this.
Jayanta May 2014
It is Ponnaiyar
Flowing to the Bay Bengal
and carries all dire rumour
Make everything fine and fertile!

This is our sprawling land
Our father painted on it with their soul and blood,

There was a time,
When their crop field remain pour.....  
without our slog.....

Over the years .......
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar......

Now they don’t called us
to transplant their paddy ..

Now they don’t called us
to harvest their paddy....

Now they don’t called us
to harvest their Sugarcane......

Now they love their machine,

Over the years ....
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar.......

My mother once asked ‘who develop machine?’
I replied, ‘Scientist ‘..........
She said ‘they are selfish’.............

Over the years
Many water flows through Ponnaiyar..........

Now we travel around,
and hunt for  living..............

Ponnaiyar still flowing to the Bay of Bengal
and caries the memo of our grief and struggle.....
In memories of Adibasi people of  Uchimedu village of Pondicherry. In my visit to the area in last week got an opportunity to visit the village and talk to different Adibasi families, Jagon a local Adibasi youth who help me in the interaction. It is very difficult to forget people’s struggle and their fight to achieve dignity.
Ponnaiyar is a river of Southern India, started from of Nandidurg hill of Karnataka and flows to Bay of Bengal.
Jayanta Apr 2014
You come and
Surprisingly change everything!

You come to replace scorching aflame of daylight,
You come with thunder and wind;
Out of fear,
Tears come out from the sky!

We say
You are coming to visit your mother’s place!

We always wait for your visit
Because, your energy and plummeting forces
Not only wreckage but it set up the ground for creation!

We call you ‘Bordoichila’
The butterfly
Who dance and fly with vigour,
Distribute our individual wishes to others
to complete the progression for creation !

You are our adored sister,
The butterfly dancer!

We always wait for you
to dance with you
in the festival of spring!
From April to May many parts of India experiences thunderstorm.  There are many name for it, Kalbaishakhi, Bordoichila,etc. In Assam we call it ‘Bordoichila’ in our Assamese language, which is derived from the word ‘Bordoichiklha’ (the dancer who performed the dance Bagrumba, where butterfly movements are mimicked. It is a dance of Bodo community living in Assam). When the thunder storm   comes people use to say “Bordoichila coming to her mother’s place’.  Local people believe that thunder storm of this season is an indicator, how it will rain in summer; if it is prominent, there will be good rain or vies-versa”. This time 'Bordoichila'has not visited us yet.
Jayanta Apr 2014
It is a temple
Where we pray and learn!

It is an abode
Where we congregate and share!

It is a garden
Where everyone blossom!

It is a bastion of contemplation
Each of us sanctify with thought!

It is foliage
Reflects our friendship and wisdom!

It is a castle
Where we find out our hymn to lead a life!

It is a stream
Still flowing and giving elixir of life!
Dedicated to the days of Indian Institute of Forest Management (IIFM), to our teacher, class mate and fellow friends.
Jayanta Apr 2014
You branded me as Pachyderms!
But, your skin is thicker than me,
thus, my appeal never pats you!

You alter me to an exhibit ....
  .... 'Rhino show' and
  get earning from my show!

You **** me for my horn
to energies you and heal your seen!
But ‘Why don’t use your hair and nails?’

I am older than you
Carrying the heritage of  
Fifty million years!
We have the imprint of thirty million years in us!
Yours is only four million years!
You are quite junior to me in experience of survival!
“How, you claim you are supreme?”

This is my grass land
I nurture it with my compassion and essence,
My toil not only gives us food,
But we,..........
........Protect the sources of food for you too.....
.........you will get the fruits in future!........  

But,
You never listen to me....
.....care me........
.....Our hue and cry.....
...Unable to penetrate....
.....your rigid casing of so called kindness and charity......

Please stop your .........
.......cruelty and defacement.....

Other wise
Planet’s history will never forgive you!
Rhinoceros (comes from the Greek ‘rhino’ - "nose" and ‘ceros’- "horn"); is the one of the most threatening and endangered wildlife in the world. It is categories as Pachyderms (comes from Greek, ‘pachys’ -thick and ‘derma’-skin). Rhino caries the imprint of existence in this planet about 50 million years old out of which present species caries imprint of 30 million years; whereas human imprint is only 4 million years. Our vandalism on it is blunders to our future!  
Rhino’s horn is not attached to its skull. It is actually a compacted mass of hairs that continues to grow throughout the animal’s lifetime, just like our own hair and nails. There are a growing number of killings of Rhino only for its horn, to fulfil our faulty belief. But the Rhino habitat grassland is the source of diversity of grasses, which may provide us new variety of rice and wheat in future to face the challenges of climate change.  But our age old superstition invigorated with the availability of modern tools (an outcome of rational thinking and innovation). It is a tragedy of our civilization. There is a need for global approach and initiatives to protect this beautiful life and remove superstition. Let us try for it!

— The End —