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Al-Farouk Jul 2016
Allah created the universe
With plenty of beauties
And entities
Eid being a marvel
In His creation.
Its a jubilee a jamboree
Islam golden moments.

Laughter smiles joy
Foods delicacies cuisines
Visits greetings hugs
All in this finicky day
Commemorates agitation
In our islamic entity.
Its surely a jubilee.

Eid a cheerful day
Eid be the morning star
The star that shines,
That shines in a shiny
Shining cloud
Dont you admire this?
Dont you?
I suppose it to be a jamboree.

Eid is here
Embracing do not fear
Eid is a pearl
In the shells of oyster
Rise up and liberate
Jump and hail
'Eid Mubarak'

Eid indeed a regal day
All this is ours
Ours for the taking
Ours for the loving
Ours for adorning
Amid our pride and passion
We shall slogan ourselves
'Eid Mubarak'

Eid a sheen,
Deactivate all forms of sins
Attained in all sorts of scenes
Satisfaction let it be seen
I admit that we do all sheen,
Caution we be keen.
A jamboree I incarnate.

Eid an endeavour
Allah put up this favour
Exquisite and dainty forever
This majestic day never shover
Blessings absolutely covers
Its a jubilee a jamboree
Islam sparkling moments.
SUDHANSHU KUMAR Mar 2022
Don't hide your face, don't even cover...
Play like a man, it's just the festival of color'..!
Prepare water bombs and get your water gun...
Fight against unknown, it's really so much fun..!

Follow their path and chase them down...
Color them up and make them a clown..!
Then run fast, back to your way...
And repeat it again, repeat throughout the day..!

Spray the colors and spread them in the sky...
Dance like a crazy on the music so high..!
Bath in that color's shower and make your mood lite...
Just for one day, forget your healthy diet..!

Taste different cuisines: veg or non-veg, tangy or hot...
Fill your mouth with chaat, dahi-bade, drumstick and empty the whole ***..!
Dive into the pool of sweetness, grab your sweets up:
Gujhiya, Gulab Jamun or even an Ice-cream's cup..!

It's not a day just to wear white dresses...
Enjoy this day but don't forget its message..!
“Evils, Sins and Rivalries are made to be thrown...
But Friendships, Truths and Glories are made to be won..!”

Touch the feet of your elders and seek their blessing'...
Forget every challenge' for one day, which continuously you're facing..!
Keep aside your ego and be friend' with everyone slowly...
Spread the colors of love and make this holi even a more colorful
Holi..!
Gujhiya, Gulab jamun are some Indian sweets and Chaat, Dahi bade are some Indian snacks...

Water bombs — Water balloons
Friend' — Friends
Blessing' — Blessings
Color' — Colors
Challenge' — Challenges
Holi is an Indian festival of colors and delights..!
Black and Blue Jun 2019
Be patient.
     His heart is guarded and he has built walls around himself to keep others out. He deflects with humor and light words, he deflects by always being “okay”, he deflects by comically dunking on you—but one day his dams will break and his walls will crumble. You need to be patient for the day that this will happen. You need to be patient for the day that he will truly let you in, let you peek at his raw emotions, let you marvel at his strengths and weaknesses. Maybe it will not happen all at once, maybe it will happen as slowly as a river carves a canyon out of rock. You must be patient with him.

Be kind.
     He needs kindness like we all need air to breathe. He might not always think so, but he needs kind words, encouraging messages, thoughtful gestures. He needs kindness, the world hasn’t shown him enough of it.

Be compassionate.
     He pretends he doesn’t need these kind, gentle touches and kind, gentle words but he does. He is a desert parched for soft rainfall—give it to him. Be compassionate when he opens up about his mental health, his deepest fears, his family, and those who he loves. He is a man who loves deeply, and you must love deeply too. He is a man who cares deeply, and you must care deeply too.

Be understanding.
     He carries a lot of pain and a lot of tragedy—he has been dealt bad hand after bad hand. But he is trying. He is growing. He is making progress. Be understanding of his needs and his journey, be understanding of him.

Be resilient.
     He will try to shut down his feelings and shut out the world—it’s his tried and true way of survival. Don’t leave him just because he needs to do a hard reset on his emotions. Don’t leave him just because he seems like he’s okay. Don’t leave him just because he’s quiet when it rains. Don’t leave him just because he tries to push you away in his silence. Be resilient and never ending in your reassurance of him. Remind him quietly, or loudly, that he is yours and you’re not leaving.

Be honest.
     You must continually be honest because he’s been lied to, too many times. You must be honest and forceful whenever he refuses to accept compliments, because his truth about himself is poisoned by the pain he’s carried around in his lifetime. You must be honest with what you’re feeling, he just wants to help you and he cannot read your mind. You must be honest in letting him in. You must trust him and be honest in return.

Be yourself.
     He has no tolerance for fake smiles, fake feelings, or fake people. He has no need or want for mistruths, half-spun lies, or false claims. He needs authenticity. He needs someone who is genuine. He needs someone who said what they said and did what they did...maybe someone with the ability to know if they were wrong but not lie about their missteps. He needs someone who will show him all of their highs and lows, someone who will be unafraid of who they are, someone who will proudly be who they are instead of who they think he wants.

Be strong.
     He has been strong for everyone else for far too long. He needs someone to lean on, someone to support his aching arms, someone strong enough to share the weight he carries. He needs someone that will allow him to feel as deeply as he needs to, to be as weak as he needs to be. Be strong and be bold—for he is strong and bold, and needs the same to thrive.

Be hungry.
     He has a hunger for life, for laughter, for enjoyment, for smiling, for telling stories, for eating at his favorite Mexican places, for playing his favorite games. He has a bottomless hunger for affection, for great hamburgers, for passion, for art, for beautiful words, for learning new things, for dogs & cats, for white chocolate mochas, for jokes. You must be hungry enough to keep up with his appetite.

Be protective.
     He has been hurt too many times and he needs shelter from the world. He still cares so readily, so openly, and still gets hurt time and time again. Be protective of his sweetness, his softness, of his gentle moments. Be protective of his weaknesses, his shortcomings, of his darkest moments. Keep them safe, hold them close to you and protect them. Keep him safe, hold him close to you and protect him.

Be ready. Of course be prepared, but also:
   Be ready to laugh. He is the funniest man I know. He uses humor to show those around him that he cares. He uses humor to show those around him that he’s okay. He wields humor like a knight wields a sword to protect himself and others. Be ready to laugh, but be ready to see through his humor.      
     Be ready to adventure. He needs adventure. He needs little adventures throughout the days and months in trying new things and going new places. He needs big adventures to draw him out of his comfort zone, to take him to new cuisines and maybe new countries.
     Be ready to love. You will fall in love with him and his ocher eyes and calloused hands and strong shoulders. You need to be ready, because whether that love happens all at once like summer storm-clouds pour rain on cornfields or whether it grows slowly from a seedling to a honeysuckle vine twining through your heart and squeezing it, you will fall in love with him and you must be ready.
     Be ready to wake up early. He is a morning person and he wants someone to fix him/help him fix/help him pick breakfast. He is a morning person that wants to roll around in the sheets and play with your hair and skim his hand up and down your arm while you’re half awake. He is a morning person who wants to listen to music to start his day even though he almost never sings in the shower. He is a morning person by necessity who has come to love it by nature; try to get up and see sunrises with him, try to get up and share the breakfast table with him, try to get up and see him first thing in the morning with sleep in the corner of his eyes and a deep rumble in his chest.
     Be ready to listen. He has so many stories in his mind, in his eyes, and on his tongue that need to be told. From the stories of his day, the jokes of his coworkers, the songs he loves, the recipes he watches, the feelings he shares, the games he loves, right down to the things he doesn’t say aloud...he needs someone ready to listen.

Be steadfast.
     He needs commitment. He needs a white picket fence and a dog and two or three children. He needs someone to always hold his hand and stand by his side. He needs someone unafraid of his darkness. He needs someone steadfast, brave, loyal, etc. He needs someone to call his home. He needs someone who will look a storm in the eye, adjust her sails, and drop her anchors where she stands.

Be good.
     Actually, be better than good. Be better than great. He only deserves the best this world has to offer. Too often he is Atlas carrying his pain, others expectations, his past, his deep desires, and the world on his shoulders. He deserves the best to stand beside him and remind him he doesn’t have to be alone. He deserves the best of women to hold him through his lows and soar with him on his highs. Be yourself, but be the best version you can be. Because he deserves only the best this world can give him.
for ERJIII
Valsa George Sep 2016
Even a wayside **** can ignite
greater passion in the heart
than a well potted garden plant
at the centre of a tastefully landscaped plot

Even a child’s prank can be more hilarious
than all the cranky jokes of an acclaimed comedian

Even in the warble of a lonesome bird
there can be more flooding melody
than in the well tuned violin of a music maestro

There can be greater poetry in a simple ditty
than in all the lines of verse in a great epic

A tear drop may contain greater salinity
      than all the waters of a great ocean
      
       Perhaps a simple nod of head or a wink of the eye
communicates much more than a whole bunch of words

I don’t know why I love the dainty flowers of May
than perhaps the exotic lotus of the day
Don’t we love the homemade fare served with love
      more than all the delectable cuisines of a posh restaurant
      
      The small things of life thus,
      prove much bigger than big things
      
      Just as the joy of life is not always ruined by fatal errors
      but by the recurrence of injurious little things,
      Greatness is achieved not through momentous actions
      but by the little things done in a great way
Ever thought how these four years would turn out for you??

Classes, proxies and birthday surprises,

Or ‘Junior– senior’ interaction which was a ragging in disguise!

The unlimited Gangtok trips-

Which was a first step towards your relationships!

Momos, Thukpas, Jalebi and Falay,

Which you would have it without any delay!



Kaalrav or departmental fest,

Which you would attend with utter zest!

The 6.9 turbulence-

Causing a whole lot of turbulence!

People seeming like refugees-

With no phone networks to contact friends, relatives and families!

Those 14 tiring sessionals in total

Which you crossed, thinking it to be a hurdle!

The placement tension-



And getting a job was the ultimate question!



Aahhh! These four years of igniting memories are just too wonderful,

Which  are definitely unforgetful!!!
(Meanings : Kaalrav- College fest
Momos, Thukpa, Jalebi and Falay- local cuisines in the state of Sikkim, India
Sessional- mid-sems)
~
January 2024
HP Poet: Melanii
Age: 27
Country: USA


Question 1: We welcome you to the HP Spotlight, Melanii. Please tell us about your background?

Melanii: "My real name is Arianna. I was born and raised around Dallas, TX and am currently still living here. As it relates to writing, my background draws heavily from exposure to the arts as a child and the fascination, I guess, for beauty that this instilled. My parents (but especially my dad) were enthusiastic about music, art, history, literature, and the sciences, and my interest in all of these topics was piqued by association. Growing up I can recall countless visits to the local art museum, watching documentaries in the evenings after school, attending operas with my parents, and running home after school in the early days of each month to see if the latest issue of National Geographic had arrived so I could soak up the pictures and get lost daydreaming of faraway lands and peoples.

With time these influences grew into a general interest in the humanities. I attended the University of North Texas in Denton from 2014-2017 and studied anthropology, French, and Russian after doing a 180 on my initial intention of studying and pursuing psychology as a career path at a different school. At the time it felt kind of reckless, but in hindsight it was definitely the right decision.

After graduating, I was working as a barista and somewhere along the way ended up going to Prague for a month in the summer of 2018 to do a TEFL certification, fell into poetry that fall, and then returned to Prague for 11 months in 2019 to teach English. It was very much the best and the worst of times: I met some amazing people while there, took the opportunity to travel around a bit, and lived and learned from a horrendous relationship that also transpired during that year. I definitely went into that experience without any clear objectives or expectations; looking back, life definitely took that complacency and turned the tables with it, and while it took several years afterwards for the dust to fully settle, I've made it out the other side stronger, more intentional, and more assertive than before.

Since then, life has really just been what it's been. There have been ups and downs, of course, but the lows don't hit as hard anymore. Right now, there's not much to report and I plan to keep it that way. It's nice. Peaceful. It's a new year, and with it I will continue to focus on working, saving money, making a dent in the hydra that my reading list has become, and overall just living well and building towards the future."



Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Melanii: "As a teenager I’d scribble fragments of poems here and there, but never considered writing to be a hobby. That all changed around September 2018 when, for whatever reason, I decided that I enjoyed writing and wanted to dedicate more time to it. As mentioned in Question #2, this was right around the time I was preparing to relocate to Prague. It's kind of hard to describe; maybe it was just the excitement of the unknown, but that whole period of time had a sense of magic and beauty about the way it was unfolding which the “discovery” of poetry as a creative outlet only elevated."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Melanii:  "At first, it seemed like “there was inspiration around every corner”, to quote another poet I read here on HP one time (can't remember who it was or the title of the piece, but they were describing how great poets like Bukowski seemed to find inspiration so effortlessly, and the way they phrased it has stuck with me). Fast forward five years to today, and while I don't write as prolifically anymore the words come when I have something to say.

Inspiration comes from many sources for me: music, art, and nature; random thoughts, feelings, ideas, and observations; the works of other poets; travel when it happens; disappointments in family and other relationships; loneliness…

As far as the actual writing process goes, it's pretty random. More often than not, I'd say the poems write themselves and I just jot them down once they're ready, or as they evolve and refine themselves to fruition. Not the most thoughtful approach, but it comes from the heart."



Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Melanii: "To me, poetry is a language — specifically a language of consciousness in its purest, most elemental form. Poetry has the ability of transcending and even defying the typical rules of language without losing cogency, and for me it's this inherent flexibility that makes it at once so unique and so impactful as an art form."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Melanii: "Federico García Lorca, Li Qingzhao, and Pablo Neruda are the top 3 names that come to mind. I enjoy the unique way that each one of them uses language and imagery to illustrate the pieces of their lives and humanity which they decided to share through their writing. There's an element of surrealism, sensuality, and expansiveness running through each of their writing styles that speaks to me in the way it encompasses the beauty and complexity of life's possibilities across good and bad times alike."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Melanii: "I enjoy traveling and would love to be in a place someday where I can do so more often. The urge to explore again has been gnawing at me recently, so after a little bit of research and number crunching, I renewed my passport and booked a flight to Peru for three weeks in March. I had promised myself to visit a new region the next time I traveled, and despite growing up in Texas I have yet to visit Latin America. The plan is to start in Cusco, sightsee there, then head south into Bolivia to tour the Salar de Uyuni, which has been on my bucket list since learning of its existence from National Geographic. I couldn't believe that a place like that was real, and words cannot express how excited I am to finally experience the landscape in person! With March marking the beginning of the end of the rainy season, I'm hoping to still catch some of the “mirror” effect that the salt flats are so famous for. After touring the flats, the plan is to take an overnight bus back to La Paz before heading north again towards Lima with some sightseeing stops along the way and a few days left over in the city before flying back home. So we'll see what happens!

Languages are a long standing interest as well. I studied French for 7 years between high school and college, and Russian for the 3 years I spent at university. Since graduating, I've kept up with both through podcasts, YouTube videos, news articles, and music, and despite being far from fluent in either it's helped a lot with retention and comprehension. Learning ancient Greek has also been an on-and-off endeavor since 2017 after reading Euripides’ plays and deciding that I'd like to read Medea in its original text someday. Time will tell if that ever happens, but I did recently complete an online introductory course to the language which was a nice memory refresher and helped with unpacking some of the grammatical concepts that threw me for a loop back when I first started and which are part of the reason I fell away from Greek in the first place. After Greek, I would like to learn some Coptic, Farsi, and Turkish, and would be satisfied with learning to read at least one sentence in Mandarin in my lifetime.

Outside of travel and languages, I enjoy researching and cooking dishes from various cuisines, reading, taking walks, trying out different exercise classes on days off (recently I've done tai chi, pilates, barre, aerial silks, and kickboxing, but in the past I've tried pole fitness, archery, aerial silks, cycling, and horseback riding), visiting art museums, dropping by the symphony or opera once in a blue moon, and watching videos and documentaries on philosophy, history, theology (not religious, though, just curious), and science."



Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for giving us an opportunity to get to know the person behind the poet, Melanii! We have loved adding you to this series!”

Melanii: "Thank you so much for having me and for all your efforts conducting this series of interviews! It's truly a pleasure having the opportunity to break the ice and learn more about our fellow poets."



Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Melanii little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez

We will post Spotlight #12 in February!

~
joycewrites Mar 2017
I grew up in a Muslim country
Where the culture is different;
Dress codes, cuisines, sceneries, and peaceful people,
Different from your local news' bombing news content.

I met different people at my old school, all of which are my friends;
Of different ethnicities, culture, and religion.
Despite our major differences, we treated each other as one;
We built a bond that is not made for oblivion.

I am lucky to grow up experiencing having a Muslim and a Christian for a friend,
I get invited to holidays like Christmas and Ramadan.
I get to see and feel the best of both worlds,
And respect for each religion is the key to living as one.

I wrote this to serve as an eye-opener
That the terrorists that you see on the news are not my Muslim brothers;
For when terror is claimed in Islam's name,
They disrespect the Islamic belief and teachings when they make that claim.

We need to live in a world where people thinks critically—
A world with no woman with a hijab is stared at disrespectfully;
A world where nobody uses Islam as a sign of terror;
A world with no discriminations, just peace and tranquility.

I hope we also learn cultural sensitivity,
For religion differences aren't something to joke about and be tagged with petty comedy.
Respect is what we need to have a peaceful community,
And if we really want to live in a world free from disquieting thoughts and emotions,
Let this all start with you and me.
(c) Mary Joyce A. Tibajia | 2017
Zach Gomes Feb 2010
The sun fires down, oppressive
and I decide to have a break
from my slow trek towards the West and
take a table for a drink—

the conditions being so extreme,
I prepare to indulge myself,
order pizza and green tea
and toast, alone, my youth and health—

there along the subway wall
surrounded by the heights of old cuisines,
the best of ancient cultures crawl
to beg and sell from on their knees

to me, the *** of modern times
who orders pizza and green tea,
who stands to pack his books and lines
then, rising, slow and sluggish leaves—

yet, as I resume my heat-wave march
the décor reveals itself bit by bit:
a spattering of bullet holes—stark
shards from old slabs of wall been ripped
Amitav Radiance Apr 2014
As twilight descends on the city
Bright lights adorn the cityscape
As if the stars have come to decorate
The bustling party, where everyone is invited
Streets, alleys, pathways, boulevard- sparkling
With electrifying wattage, reminiscent of the celebrations
People returning home after a hard day’s work
With a slouch, after the backbreaking toil
The city lights up to entertain the weary passersby
Gives some solace to the mind, before another day beckons
The grim reality of the fast-paced city life is forgotten
As it’s time to celebrate another evening
Despite all the hardships and bickering among each other
There is always the dazzle of city lights to bathe with life
Rejuvenate us and entertain us; helping to cope with reality
The city crowd is amazing, where there is always a crowd
Despite being surrounded by people, yet we are alone
People flashing a forced smile to greet each other
Food stalls are a great leveler, where global cuisines are served
Bringing the flavors across the world, to the local taste buds
Everyone is in the limelight, under the city lights
Even the dark alleys and treacherous places align seamlessly
Yet, the city sees so many segregation and prejudices
The city lights don’t seem to illuminate all minds alike
All said and done, let’s be a part of the city’s party
As we are all invited, and revel till the city lights burn bright


© Amitav (Radiance)
Raphael Uzor May 2014
Round tables      and cocktails
Cuisines and   Champagne
Candles and moonlight
Whispers and laughter
Tuxedos and dresses
Flowers and kisses
Jazz and piano
You and I*



© Raphael Uzor
skyblueandblack Oct 2014
In dreams
he loves me ~
he looks at me with those seductive eyes
that take me on flights along emerald skies

In dreams
he touches me
and I melt with desire
his hands and his kisses light me on fire

In dreams
he takes me
on trips to France and Italy ~
we dance the night away and
dine on the finest cuisines,
sipping champagne
in chauffeured limousines

Then I awaken…
…and have to get ready for work.
Diverseman2020 Feb 2010
You haven't tasted
What I have cooked
A recipe
That makes the heart grow fonder
I'm not a chef
But a sailor with many cuisines
A bite of a life time
Will lose your soul
The ocean holds the ingredients
As you journey to
A menu to your discovery
Uncovers who I am
Now be seated
Cause the host
Is not who he is
Alexis J Meighan Oct 2012
I figure this to be
The sanctuary
Build from the ash and debris
Of past storms and unhealthy tendencies
A folk lore
Just short of a mystery
The list is infinite
But the bottom of the page is clear to me
I focus my point
Trying to stay on target but I miss easily
Dreaming of clouds and celestial cuisines, heavenly
Close my eyes and jump from outer space
Screaming as if it will cushion the fall from grace
Tearing apart on impact, what's left?
My complacency, complexity, impurities, the real me?
They way down is way down
How long a fall? Just way down
I'll aim for that hay pile
Like a middle era hero with a pale cowl (Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad  reference)
Falling feels like sinking
The weight in my gut persist to expel itself
In my panic I'm thinking
"I wish gravity would give up
I'm 500 feet from the pavement
15 seconds till impact
If this is my dream the wings will be there
And I'll soar away just before I hit the floor
I close my eyes and begin to squeeze
Visualizing the emergence of these beautiful wings
I open my eyes
I can see the cracks on the side walk and lines on the street
10 feet from the ground ready to take off then like a dream I .............(Loud Thud!!!!!!)
Ouch!!
    -Xin-
Samuel Mar 2011
A thought bubbles up from my mind
Cooperation, people working together
To revive their poisoned planet
Tanks dismantled, bombs defused
Grand parades celebrating the end of war
Brothers of different races
Arm-in-arm
Looking toward the future
Instead of dwelling on the past

Planting great gardens
Of red and gold and blue
Flowers the size of houses
Symphonies shouting the music of souls
Touching the hearts of millions
Sunny parks, green grass, tennis *****
Food enough for all who desire it
A blend of cuisines from across the globe
Gracing every plate
Children laughing
The bubble turns dark
Pop.
PFL Jun 2016
I am not rooted like a tree,
Yet, I too, cast shadows all around me.,
Sunbeams waltz  through my shade.
Within its chill I start to fade into ponder,
   Filled with a curious lust to wander.
Not in thoughts which  pressed pulp is written upon,
Or  with cuisines made from oiled  salads and hearts of Palm.
The sun’s ****** pushes me to uproot and go as I please,
    Each day’s truth, to follow this warmth and majesty.
Royal colored panoplies illuminate,
The sky’s wide open path on which it roams.
  Crossing borders at dawn,
Bringing to the world enlightenment’s pageantry.
   While most sleep thru the moon’s hidden release,
  Wind convinces the sea to rise,
Only to fall from the sky’s grip arbitrarily,
Quenching primal thirst to travel beyond one’s shores.
Gone from its known onto somewhere, change never ending.
  Anxiously, I stare, aware of the horizon’s beyond allure,
My prayer, for the same journeys to stop it’s pending.
  To be caressed and uplifted from the comforts of me,
Then scattered liberally back into the newness of myself.
                                                                                PFL
Thoughts from a wandering palm.
Snow sits on the branches of dead trees like it's meant to be there
And it just sits but
It works
No one questions it

We talked to each other on the phone for 5 hours straight without running out of conversation

A lot like last Friday night when not so sober dialogue brought true feelings to the surface
And I had to swim through it to get to you
But that was alright
Because I'm a **** good swimmer

But even your words spit out of you like poetry when you speak about God or lack thereof
And I just wish that I could unravel into you like a deity of the heart

But let's not get too attached
Right?

What happens when what starts as talking about your wildest dreams to your best friend turns into ballsy conversation that is long overdue

You've always been better than me at poetry and saying what you really wanna say

Words fall out of you on cue catching me off guard without even having to think about it

Well what if I told you that last weekend I felt euphoric for a while
And euphoria did a lot for me
Euphoria inspired me
And euphoria took me to work without complaints
And euphoria fed me only what I wanted to eat
Only the richest of cuisines
Because you make me feel
Nothing less than euphoric

I find it funny that you think I'm intelligent
Like how
Nothing gets by me
And when you say things just know
That I'm an analyst
And you better bet I'll scrape out a double meaning that might not be there

But for now
The snow will continue to fall
And as those crystals sit silently on the trees
I will continue to fall
Continue to feel
Euphoric
http://youtu.be/uTnge5mcSKI
shireliiy Nov 2015
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Alessander Jul 2018
Encyclopedic mainframes
Lap-top heads
Power-boxes for multitudinous outlets, plugs, chargers
Conduits manipulating
Fiber-optic arteries
Artificial energy
ZAP
Pale lights
Computers aglow in dark cloistered bedrooms
Powered pacemakers stalling at microwaves
Electrocuted blood - cookied fantasies
Ads proclaiming everything free!
Pharmaceutical elixirs for limpness, lumpiness, loneliness
Snake-oil for suffering
Nigerian kings, Syrian refugees
*******, clever memes, whimsical gifs, shocking news, witty banter
Socio-politic-religous-diatribes
Spewing on every thread

Existential *****.
Aroma-less cuisines
Vacuumed vacations
Youtubed communions
Suicide selfies.


Crucifixdrones - pedolandia
Jdate.POF.AshleyMadison.Match. Eharmony.SpeedDate.OKcupid
CG. Missed encounters...
Serial killers,
Pixalated *******, vein-throbbed **** shots, cardboard gloryholes

Instagramed I
Inviolate I
Internet I

I    I     I

No sweaty arm pits, cottage cheese, gray nose hairs or belly fat
Computer [ScreenShot]
While behind, posters hang: The Doors, Tupac, NIN, The Smiths, Hendrix, Joy Division, Nirvana

HandshapedHeart.

2D souls
Text-dating
144 word manifestos
#revolutions
Archetype emoticons

Doodled centaurs
Caged in matrices

Transcendental notes
Need a hit
Of internet smack

A line, a pinch, a drag
A like, a comment, a kudos
A reply, a thumbs up, a share, a poke
One measly view
Baby, come on, give me a fix
Just one
Notification: ding-beep-buzzzz
I want to dissolve like alka-seltzer in tap water
Otherwise I'm a used-up toothpaste tube
Sitting in a dank medicine cabinet

If not, I am
A stick-figure created from matches
Drowning in a drum of gasoline

Not buried beneath pregnant soil
No. dumped into blue recycling bins.

[Ctrl +Alt+Delete]
Tommy Johnson Jan 2015
I am the multi-purpose good for nothing
Careening down a log flume
Being put on another sucker's list
Trying to set back the sundial
So I can summarize this fuzzy picture and see what it entails

I see lauded tutorials that are not even close to the proper way
Because there is no proper way

I see gourmet cuisines in doggy bags
To be saved for later

I hear clods trying to be funny, playing with euphemisms on the airwaves

I've driven down countless roadways
I've compared the song bird's plumage to the guy who tried to play off his plummer's crack
They're both one in the same
So I've got that going for me

I've found those who enjoy the uptight delights in life
Who, if a single hair is out of place receive a reduction in pay

So I suppose, I had better get on with it
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Mar 2023
Let us build a wall
on which we carve
the names of all
6 million Jews
murdered by Nazis.

Let us build a wall
on which we carve
the names of all
killed in WW I and II.

Let us build a wall
of sand each grain glued
by horror of all those
slaughtered throughout
millennia.

But let us now
build no more walls,
but the bridge of love,
a mosaic of mankind--
colors, cultures, cuisines
and more.

TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Anais Vionet Nov 2023
I traveled almost everywhere, growing up. It took years. The landscapes, flora and fauna, the art, music, cuisines and curse words all seem to blend together in my mind.

Mount Fuji, the Rhine, the Himalayas, the Chattahoochee, Shenzhen, Washington DC, the Alps, and Appalachians, Moscow, Beijing, Dublin, Portland, Paris, Atlanta, London, St. Petersburg, Tokyo, Rome, Wuhan, Berlin, the Yangtze, the Mississippi, Saint-Tropez and LA - are all jumbled up in my brain, like old, wrinkled maps in a glove compartment.

My mom has total recall - she can remember every day of her life since her mama handed her a faded yellow and blue rattle when she was 6 months old - God gave me the glove compartment.

Still, some things are unforgettable, like an electrical storm breaking around Mt Everest, the lights of New York City, at night, from a helicopter, glittering on the horizon like a queen’s crown. The Danube, from a riverboat under a too-bright moon and the elegant poverty of Italy.

In some ways, I grew up like an exile because we moved every couple of years and I’d have to start my social life all over again - usually in a different language. Every place we left seemed a lost paradise, and each new place seemed cold and harsh.

Speaking of home to harsh transitions, November recess is over and we’re back in New Haven - with two weeks before final exams. Welcome to exhaustion week (weeks).

This morning I started going through my syllabuses, and after a week of holidaying - they seemed like indecipherable relics from a different world, a world of papers, tests and stingy-fun. I’ve so many things to wrap-up, my brain can’t seem to contain them all, I’m a gadget that’s out of memory.

I used to take my books on vacation, to remain in the ‘game’ mentally and stay ahead of the grind. Not this time. Hey, growing up, I’ve had my moments of ‘developmentally appropriate’ rebellion - in this case - I wanted memories to hoard, like inoculations against the coming work and loneliness cycles.
My parents are both doctors who traveled the world to teach (heart surgery) and treat (for free) the poor who would have otherwise died.
Tark Wain May 2015
Stop it.

Just stop it.

Stop it with your philosophy.
Your answers
your higher meanings.
Just stop it.

All you talk about is Socrates
you praise his ideology.
Place him on a pedestal of greatness
a shining example of a life lived right.

Where was that ideology
when he hung from the gallows.
What good are one's thoughts
when one's neck fails to connect with itself?

What say you?
Plato is no better.
nonono he is not
the man tasked with carrying on his mentors ideals.
This genius
this beacon of hope.
Spent over 10 pages of his book
explaining why older men should not have *** with younger boys
as if he was trying to convince himself.

Not the reader.

Just stop with it all.

I am not struggling to find myself
I am struggling to find rent money.
My problems are not in my head.
They are in my bank account.

You pine over a greater purpose
like it's some piece of salvation.
You talk of the high pleasures.
You tell me that I have more to gain from sitting and watching an opera
than from ******* a *****.
I don't want to discuss semantics
but I'll talk logistics.
I'll take the latter
not because I love ******
but because I hate the opera.

Pleasure cannot be defined or quantified
My pleasure is solely to see tomorrow.
Something I'm not too confident in right now.
Philosophy is the activity of the man with free time.
But time is not free.
It is expensive and costly.
Those with time don't understand.
Those without it understand it too well.

Love is not my end goal.
A family is not my dream.
A house on a hill would be nice.
But only because of the house.

Not the hill.

So spare me.

Please.

When you tell me about the wonders of the world.
Realize all I have seen lately are alleyways.
Don't tell me about different cuisines.
When I can only afford the dollar menu.
Don't tell me I can be anything I want
when I can't seem to be able to be anything I need.

Life is not limitless.
The soul is not infinite.
Everything has an expiration date.

I just hope mine isn't tomorrow.
Joseph C Ogbonna Jul 2023
I am his punching bag,
he punches me at will,
he punches me to vent his anger,
he does so to douse his frustrations.
He tries to regulate my emotions,
he entrenches himself fastidiously
in my life's branches.

My constant battery is his love's
justification.
To him, none else could care better,
not even my own sacrificial mum.
In my secular and public life,
his raging jealousy is hardly concealed.
I am his only mood swing's spectator,
I am enslaved by regular and
suicidal threats.
I must to his own will remain subservient
for my own dear children's survival.
Not even my domestic pets are spared.
My movement is restrained, every
friend of mine is a suspect,
and my conversations are thoroughly
scrutinized.
His watchful eyes are never exhausted
by prying.
He makes my life a world of suspicion
and espionage.
My conscience is daily by blame overwhelmed.
I am worthless and hardly esteemed, and can on
none else rely.
I have no better friend or acquaintance than him.
My inferior gender is a social stigma,
hence I am closeted with his unquestionable
desires.

I must please him to the utmost
with my food, chores and body;
My meals must sate his insatiable appetite
with the very best cuisines of his choice.
My house chores must be flawless in dexterity
for his perfectionist requests to please.
At bed time my **** and body curves
must gratify and gratify his ****** proclivities,
even at my own very expense.
A married Nigerian lady's poetic narrative about domestic violence
The world stood still,
our time we had to ****
lives dropped years
like hot wax on chandeliers

splattering our day to day
with matters of silver gray
of red, browns, greens and gold;
the sort of rainbow nobody ever told.

Not in fairytales nor magazines,
hot topics nor fresh cuisines
But in the eyes of trees
and suckle sweet honey bees

Day to day in the wood
where people wish they could
live out their troublesome ages--
freed from their pen and paper cages.

As if a god stopped each pedal drop
each bird's chirp and bunny hop
to be heard on trumpets high
in a day to day look at the glorious sky

a soft second when all is still
birds, babes, and a fawn, frozen at will
lifeless yet has utmost potential
delved in a growth exponential
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2020
i still managed to catch a whiff of britpop...
i was going to st. augustine's
and all the boys were all about the oasis
look... so ben sherman shirts...
          never tucked into the trousers...

but this was in the 1990s...
             of course the celebrations were short-lived...
sooner or later a prog variation of brit-pop
had to come about with radiohead...

i kind of skimmed over the early stuff...
there, there - from hail to the thief is my stand-out
track...

having just watched a movie about
the iceman... a one ryszard kuklinski -
well... if the icecream truck:
mongrel dutch-irish and this one ******
would never make into the guinea club...
or the elder fathers of zion...
guinea? seems i was misinformed...
rome's best wops... or donatello goombah...

i'm having trouble with all these
anglo-saxons slurs...
     back in dandy ol' england...
             it's not a great period piece:
happening right now...
to be in the protected class of citizentry:
no mosque... oh hell:
protected status with a falafel?
exactly... where's the falafel?

             but from the movie... wow...
it is: but it isn't... a racial slar...
the one word from skiing these oomp'ah-
loomp'ahs *** 'ight...
                        
and in mewwy ol' england i come across
the natives... almost for a second time...
not the same sort of natives
i met prior to my 1997 / 1998 interlude...

perhaps 7/7 happened?
                      i really don't know...
                  but no great cultural export...
no oasis was sang on the continent
after oasis songs were sung...
it's not like kasabian made it into that
transcendental meaning on offer...
    
      hey! variations: pollack!
   paul-lack! st. paul's lacking? what?
a head... in athens... ah ha... dry martini of
a joke...
    but who am i?
        profession? pole / paul...
       ******* in my spare time, jackson jr.,
because... it's hardly a slur...
it would be a slur if i were called
a *** or a goombah...
the anglo-saxons wouldn't exactly
the rooted natives...
but they would...
it's as if expected:
from speaking latin and the eagle-fetish
to brewing cappuccinos...

a dutch-irish... well a dumb pollack joke...
yes... and now that the virus is caughing
via the retards in the supermarket isles
or licking ice-cream / toilet rims...
i guess an honest workforce is...
something to be less ashamed of...
compared to this ****** nation of:
the readily to be exile puke of reason...
"of their own"...

               i seem to have elevated my...
concern for words...
     i have just started to read my Charles Dickens...
and relying on Monday
to eat a more delightful roast dinner:
i says... it taste better... because it's not
a Sunday... it's a Monday...
plus... the roast is not exactly a roast...
it has some elements of bleau at the center...
because... you can't expect three
people to eat that much meat in a single sitting:
given the recipe for those yorkies from
ol' grandma of a james martin...

100g of flours, 4 eggs... circa 200ml of milk...
salt, pepper...
the dough is left in the fridge for an hour
at least... the yorkie trays are put into the oven
at 220C with the oil...
while the tatties are browning and the beef
is readying itself for the abstract
of my mouth... and the cubism of my ***...
pristine squeeze...

        if only in h'america...
            what wouldn't a norman davies call
the polacks if not industrial albino (s)*******?
then who were or would be... eire-
just -ish?
                         but the new continent:
i'm toppling down into the torso of a well-off
snowman built from an avalanche...

if there were britons here prior...
which includes the welsh and the scots...
and those people of Shropshire...
and those botanical tsars of Kent...
whoever these people are...
the noble barbarians...
   the better of vikings with no fjords
to revel in farming on?
   maybe those kind of people...
that sort of the native...
oh god forbid i should entice the cosmopolitan
brood to enter the debate...
not in the heart of the matter: come york
and its shire...
                      some longshank hobbit might
just pop its head up to high and kiss
a guillotine!

if there were the anglo-saxons...
    eh... some of us came... settled...
we wanted to... find... the englishman...
circa... 1860 - 1950... that sort of timeframe...
i guess we finds him...
question is... czy ja jestem, lecz czy on?
that's a good question...
is he the host and i the parasite...
well... funny that...
he isn't a body...
                       he's an oak that was uprooted
from somewhere among a many many
pines and birches in the eastern provinces
of this continent...
and moved... into a garden...
lurking: shadow... hunched crow
and some other hideous comparison...

am i the parasite? what host of a mind i did
acquire: who's me...
or i am him... then i'll drift into the other
trench and i'll tell the germans
that they're fighting anglican saxons...
what? yes i'll tell them...
they're not lutheran saxons...
they're anglican saxons...

              how? they have a monarchy...
a crown, central...
no petty princes bound to a federation...
i have also some across the modern natives...
the alt-right and the ethno-nationalists...
apparently: i'm not in the club...
how could i be...
i overheard them talking about...
electing a monarch...
election of monarchy...
    well... no point investing in the gene pool...
last time that was tried...
was in the guise of the polish-lithuanian
commonwealth...
the brothel of kings...
some were hungarians, some were "germans"...
some were even swedes...
the aristocracy elected a king...
a john lackland sorts from across europe...
until their big brother richard
or some variant of Otto or the proper didlo in
hand charles gustav would...
appear to wrestle with his baby brother's:
"betrothal" - evidently thart's one for the misnomer
and inversion...

the anglo-saxons as they were to be later known
as... no point beating about the bush...
but... i have measured myself against
these other inhabitants...
the welsh, the scots, the irish... and... well...
i'm not here on part of a conquering army...
my fellow countrymen are just about overwhelmed
by enjoying 100 years of privy
and freedom... little much of good will that do them...
a half-bred popular opinion:

that i hide my language in the freedom
i allow myself within english...
i'm here for the Dickens and the sunday roast beef:
and the yorkies... and the haggis and the neeps,
the mashed and roasted tatties...
and the black pud'...
            i'm not here to see how far west my ***
will point while bowing toward mecca...
if you don't mind me saying...
like i am not here for that kippah u.f.o.
ghetto of Golders Green...

                    i'm not here for a Marx on loan...
i'm here for a... "hashtag"...
   eh... the saxons have their unifying:
nomadic perspective to mind...
it's not like the saxons were not liked by...
say... the pomeranians...
   or the swabians... or the brandenburgers...
the saxons: semites of the north...
pseudo-vikings wishing for the proto- prefix...
well... are the modern saxons...
saxons? the saxons ****** off to england...
later ****** off to build the british empire...
i'm sure... the modern "saxons" are just
that... brandenburgers... some swabians...
the germans that stayed and were the enemy
under kaiser wilhelm...
that great... grandson of queen victoria...

yes... that war wasn't the war to stop all lineage
in-breeding... because...
it would take whittle adoolf the failed
art student to wake up the petty-bourgeoisie...
fully donned in khaki...
  and in hugo boss schwarz...
               and in... gulag grey-leash... of the wehrmacht:
of course...

    but anglo-saxons are, and were...
and there's this... grand ethno-etymology...
         listening to the natives...
   codes: white-genocide... ethnic displacement...
let me run back and check the state of affairs
in mother russia and ******-land...
polonia (in latin)... oh right...
i just heard... that a woman in russia...
university educated, a doctor, no less...
also believes that churches should be exempt from
restrictions on social gatherings...
because they are holy places...
and... viruses... in their primitive square / rectangular
modes of abstracting vectors...
or de-abstracting for a better cushion
of solid ground made... also have...
a sense of a higher-beings modus operandi
when plagued with doubt, or denial...
the virus knows what's scared to the russians...
too bad for all those russian buddhists...

dunno... what european are the westerners
worried about?
                         i'm here on "holiday"...
to read my Dickens: finally! it only took me
20 odd ******* years...
and my sunday roast on a monday...
   if there came a wave of anglo-saxons...
while the pomeranians stayed strapped
to the holy german empire "thing"...
and because there weren't any anglo-bohemias...
or modern anglo-czechs...

i'll branch out anyways...
                to the "greater" picture masquarade...
i'll be an anglo-slav if...
     and... oh look! they're here already...
i'm an anglo-slav... among the other minority
of the afro-saxons...
            
after all... there are tiers to migration...
there's that tier of polacks moving with the government
during the "affair" of circa 1943...
the no. 303 boys...
    and... after that? no one from ******-land
wanted to come to britain... h'america...
the golden retreiver...
               given the cold war... de facto:
to the antonym of the mensa harvest...

i came in the 1990s...
******-land and the other 8... joined the already
failing european union in 2004...
hmm...
          well... you did get that cabbage plucked...
that carrot too...
from... the sort of people without tic-toc
who... would rather **** braincells with a *****
after a god's monstrous maxim...
while i started sweating from my armpits
hunched with these words...
enough of braincells to ****...
not enough imaginative in a quasi-vivo state
of... the cannibal narcissus...
attention spans a week's worth of
goldfish adventures... licking ice-cream
you won't buy...

                            then again: a lacking paul...
is an otherwise over-eager pauline...

even if "we" were to become fully "integrated"...
like hell i was giving my mother tongue up
after that 1997 /1998 interlude...
i still wouldn't be able to teach my father the english
they speak: peppered with nuance from
the old mother grammar...
too bad... but the pronunciation is spot on...
i don't know why i should feel obliged to
the ******* on the cross to feel "circumcised"
for... his labyrinth...
      i couldn't teach my father better english
than the english already spoken: among the natives,
for the natives...
at home... mother is the cue... tongue
and everything otherwise...

we'll sample with the natives their delight in
minority cuisines...
but come monday... esp. a monday...
after a lunchbox worth of food of a sunday
feeling lazy... well... it just tastes better when
it's not... predicated on a riposte of...
conventions and harangue of: past-participle
expectations...

that sentence is littered with misnomers...
to add to the... otherwise... bland... talk...
correct... talk...

                   but i really couldn't teach my father
better english...
i have made this language sacred in my own
right as... both parasite and host...
interchangeable... of course...
eh... master and slave dynamic doesn't really
get me all hot and bothered...
i much prefer the lessened hiararchical nuance...
the co-dependency the symbiosis...
of a parasite and a host...
after all... it would seem the head of the pyramid
is a... fungus infection of the brain...
or at worst... a placenta martriarch of
a family of tapeforms: where, otherwise...
a foetus should be...

                i'm not into boot-licking...
but... if the anglo-saxons used these isles
as a spring-board to forever imitate the children
of zion...
i'm just the leftovers...
           the anglo-slav among afro-saxons...
the "great replacement"...
  woe'woe'woe... and that's a word that
should devolve into a calm down / halt insinuation...

who came after 2004... the people who didn't see loopholes
and wouldn't be seen gambling...
the sort of people that would most certainly
go back to the ***** and: the law & justice party
embrace...
   the xenophobic extracts of:
                        the impossibilty of the red sea
parting story... since they would never be the ones
there...
              that grey area...
like i am a grey area to them...
given... how many times did i want to spend
a summer at the ****** version of Woodstock...
Pol'and'Rock at Kustrin?
         lack hell i am...
   i'm confined to my little abode of folklore
anglo-saxony...
             rather: not having played the boogie man
from an 1960s period piece of:
vaginal and viagral expectations...
or... that thing known as brit-pop in the 1990s...
or... i've passed through york...
on my way to edinburgh...
           but yorkshire... beside the yorkies...
spuds? they call them?

         maybe... i'm counting 7 x 5cl to leverage
me at half a 70cl... but... looking at
what 35cl looks like turned into dosage...
i'm seeing more... than half an empty bottle...
i'm seeing the bottle as half full...
i guess this "predicament" came from
alcoholic slang and... positivism...
it's hardly optimistic... given... it's only
a perspective on only one bottle...
and there's still that sea to drink!

                      well... that's that... it was a most
enthralling ride back toward a square-root of 0...
much appreciated...
       now i'll just turn to the bed and the cushion
my head rests on...
and tell myself:
           this person was never born...
nor will his words take to boast about...
          a nativity play...
                 nor a pride in Shakespeare...
       it's one thing's worth a good reading...
quiet another... to treat it as an enzyme for
the collective: a catalyst...
to "re-invent" the wheel... as it were...
i have given birth... to perhaps...
the greatest thing i could "steal"...
         then again... i am very much...
                         exaggerating...
  but this was not born from the ****** ethnicity
of some european island folk...
  it was born on the continent...
   and it was somehow lived in and with...
never allowed to exfoliate into a courtesan...
annoyance... i gave it a limbo cage
both the host and parasite could enjoy...
after all: this language is a parasite...
i acquired when integrating...
    i am the host...
the parasite can dictate what it wants...
a blank page to exfoliate a boquet(t)e with / in...

it would most certainly appear more
orthographically sound: if boquete had an added T...
well... some will cite Shakespeare the first of and
the end of... what's defined as Ęglish...
i like to think of the... "subtle" master...
     i somehow knew it was in him...
after watching the film-adaptations... not good enough...
not having read David Copperfield...
a brush with J. D. Salinger and all that
holden caulfield Son-of-Sam sort of crap...

             i guess you just have to age a little...
a little is never greedy... and pounce on that great
big peacock playing: the pink elephant in the room!
that's me... Dickens wasn't impossible
to "unsee" or "not see"...
                                  i just needed...
the right sort of hashbrown sort of nudge...
enough organic encounters with yorkies...
baked tatties... h.p. brown sauce and enough baked
beans...
  yep... now i'm ready...
                  it's time to gently slide away from
Macbeth... and into Dickensian prose...
the Pickwick Papers is as any good place to start...
all the better: since it came highly
recommended why i was still in high-school...
all those... ****... 18 years later.
Lufuno anita May 2018
Going away
On a trip of my own
RnB soothing my ears
Chocolate sweetening my taste buds
Comfortable clothes hugging my body
Fancy cuisines filling my mouth
My eyes blinded by God's creation,
His earth

Am not upset
Am not heartbroken

Am just craving my own presence

- her life
Elena Smith Nov 2015
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Julian Delia Sep 2019
Black Friday sales and Christmas deals;
Hot on the next bargain’s trail,
Itching to fill the void the heart feels.
Transactions and agreements,
Trappings, false achievements.
Welcome to the era of the shopping mall;
This is where your dreams hop off to die,
This is their final port of call.

Everything and everyone is a commodity;
Barcoded, plastic-wrapped merchandise,
Categorisation for you and your progeny.
If money doesn’t germinate from its seed,
If it does not clothe and feed,
Then it is not something we need.

We are a philistine’s *******.
We strive to achieve the American scheme;
Delusional and overworked, about to scream,
Believing all of us can be billionaires forever,
As the planet grows hungry and lean.

Or, believing some deserve yachts and limousines,
That some should starve,
Whilst others gorge themselves on fine cuisines.
Believing that society should be divided in layers,
Assuaging our guilt with thoughts and prayers,
When instead, we could have just refrained from leaving others behind.

When everything becomes a commodity,
Art for the sake of making it becomes an oddity.
Poets retire their pens,
And painters put down their brushes -
Apathy and despair fog the lands,
Like irradiated wind corrupting everything it touches.

Singers go quiet, actors go numb;
Musicians will riot, orators will be struck dumb.
When our own turn on us, tell us to get “a real job”,
When “job creators” are done calling us “lazy slobs”,
None of us will be around to point out the irony.

We will go extinct, a dying breed, finally gone;
Life will be succinct, the greedy will have won.
Slay your kings and queens, or remain a pawn.
Tell me I'm wrong.
jayebird Jul 2019
We are strangers
Yet my heart is open to you
Soon to be neighbors is the
American Dream
Not a greed machine feeding nothing but
Chauvinistic pleasure
Nor is learning how to hoard resources to one side of a body or border an active vision anymore
Instead this night aspires for green trees untouched except by skin, a home and morale for the fallen and free, even more varied cuisines
All faces spring forth just as fluently here, no need for same speak as we may share a smile and nod just as easily, duly noting
Our colors and diversity, who is suitably similar to the landscapes travelled throughout the states, a testimony to
Our uniquely cultured experience which yearns to preserve
forever under sparks and sprinklers in summer when things grow for all;
For me, for them,
For us, for We.
Anshika Raj Apr 2020
Handed down through the ages,
Humanity in hearts and reverance for the sages.

This place is more like a heaven on Earth,
Myriad of religions are taken here birth.

Our emperors were too kind to invade any country,
Million of channels telecast it's documentary.

Jai Hind and Satyamev Jayte resides in our heart,
Our sand handles both a motor and a cart.

The holy Ganga flows from the bottom of Himalayas,
So is worshipped for being called a gift like Matthias.

The Himalayan is fit like a crown on our mother's head,
Climatic variations and monsoon rainfall are so evenly spread.

World's economy has an immense eminence of zero,
Invented by Aryabhatta; Ramanujan- the Maths hero.

Bhagat Singh, Laxmi Bai had been an epitome of strength,
Education is vastly spread and immeasurable in length.

Variety of raiment is seen in every state,
Twenty two languages and each with a feel of sedate.

Vendors working daily amidst tumults on roads,
Poetry scribbled by poet as their respectful odes.

Colours of rainbow is reflected here well,
Luscious cuisines grabs heed by the smell.

Geeta, Qur'an, Adi Granth and Bible,
At different hours, they worship their idols.

Vaisakhi, Christmas, Holi and Eid
we stand together as a pillar in every need.

Writings are not only read in books,
But scripted on walls, painting on hooks.

Folk arts, tribal arts, feet beating on rhythm,
Dance forms are many, depicting their vision.

Here, women are treated equal to men,
Delhi and Mumbai got their place in the list of wen.

We treat our guests as the heavenly God,
One can visit here either by plane or brod.

Weddings are held by following every ritual,
Our ways may differ but our hearts are mutual.

With so much of glory do not mistake it as Neverland,
As this Golden bird does not fly but stays on land.
Mark David Mar 2016
Got stuck with so many dishes.
Cuisines, cushions, comfort as we chewed
Platter stuffed with salads
Reminisced our salad days
Table is now in choc-o-block
Trouble died in our belly [ not with just belly fillers ]
Captured the moments of styled forks and spoons
Bewildered with Greek gourmets
Then finished of in long dreams in siesta
Blurred with sleep
Woke up to our surprise; out there
Our table looked like the
Last Supper Table!
Je voudrais être, sur la terre,
L'unique héritier des grands rois
Dont la force et l'éclat font taire
Tous les revendiqueurs des droits,

De ces rois d'Asie et d'Afrique,
Monarques des derniers pays
Où les maîtres sont, sans réplique,
Sans réserve, encore obéis.

Je verrais, à mon tour idole,
Les trois quarts du monde vivant
Se prosterner sous ma parole
Comme un champ de blés sous le vent.

Les tribus des races voisines
Feraient affluer par milliers
Les venaisons dans mes cuisines,
Les vins rares dans mes celliers,

Des chevaux plein mes écuries,
Des meutes traînant leurs valets,
Des marbres, des tapisseries,
Des vases d'or, plein mes palais !

Sous mes mains j'aurais des captives
Belles de pleurs, et sous mes pieds
Les têtes fières ou craintives
De leurs pères humiliés.

Je posséderais sans conquête
Mon vaste empire, et sans rival !
Dans la sécurité complète
D'un pouvoir salué légal.

Alors, alors, ô joie intense !
Convoquant mon peuple et ma cour,
Devant la servile assistance
Moi-même, en plein règne, au grand jour,

Avec un cynisme suprême,
Je briserais sur mon genou
Le sceptre avec le diadème,
Comme un enfant casse un joujou ;

De mes épaules accablées
Arrachant le royal manteau,
Aux multitudes assemblées
Je jetterais l'affreux fardeau ;

Pour les déshérités prodigue
Je laisserais tous mes trésors,
Comme un torrent qui rompt sa digue,
Se précipiter au dehors ;

Cessant d'appuyer ma sandale
Sur la nuque des prisonniers ;
Je rendrais la terre natale
Aux plus fameux comme aux derniers ;

J'abandonnerais à mes troupes
Tout l'or glorieux des rançons ;
Puis je laisserais dans mes coupes
Boire mes propres échansons ;

Sur mes parcs, mes greniers, mes caves,
Par-dessus fossé, grille et mur,
Je lâcherais tous mes esclaves
Comme des ramiers dans l'azur !

Tout mon harem, filles et veuves,
S'en retournerait au foyer,
Pour enfanter des races neuves
Que nul tyran ne pût broyer,

Qui ne fussent plus la curée
D'un vainqueur, suppôt de la mort,
Mais serves d'une loi jurée
Dans un libre et paisible accord,

Fondant la cité juste et bonne
Où chaque homme en levant la main
Sent qu'il atteste en sa personne
La dignité du genre humain !

Et moi qui fuis même la gêne
Des pactes librement conclus,
Moi qui ne suis roseau ni chêne,
Ni souple, ni viril non plus,

Je m'en irais finir ma vie
Au milieu des mers, sous l'azur,
Dans une île, une île assoupie
Dont le sol serait vierge et sûr,

Île qui n'aurait pas encore
Senti l'ancre des noirs vaisseaux,
Dont n'approcheraient que l'aurore,
Le nuage et le pli des eaux.

Dans cette oasis embaumée,
**** des froides lois en vigueur,
Viens, dirais-je à la bien-aimée,
Appuyer ton cœur sur mon cœur ;

Des lianes feront guirlandes
Entre les palmiers sur nos fronts,
Et tu verras des fleurs si grandes
Qu'ensemble nous y dormirons.
Tark Wain Jun 2016
Stop it.

Just stop it.

Stop it with your philosophy.
Your answers
your higher meanings.
Just stop it.

All you talk about is Socrates
you praise his ideology.
Place him on a pedestal of greatness
a shining example of a life lived right.

Where was that ideology
when he hung from the gallows.
What good are one's thoughts
when one's neck fails to connect with itself?

What say you?
Plato is no better.
nonono he is not
the man tasked with carrying on his mentors ideals.
This genius
this beacon of hope.
Spent over 10 pages of his book
explaining why older men should not have *** with younger boys
as if he was trying to convince himself.

Not the reader.

Just stop with it all.

I am not struggling to find myself
I am struggling to find rent money.
My problems are not in my head.
They are in my bank account.

You pine over a greater purpose
like it's some piece of salvation.
You talk of the high pleasures.
You tell me that I have more to gain from sitting and watching an opera
than from ******* a *****.
I don't want to discuss semantics
but I'll talk logistics.
I'll take the latter
not because I love ******* ******
but because I ******* hate the opera.

Pleasure cannot be defined or quantified
My pleasure is solely to see tomorrow.
Something I'm not too confident in right now.
Philosophy is the activity of the man with free time.
But time is not free.
It is expensive and costly.
Those with time don't understand.
Those without it understand it too well.

Love is not my end goal.
A family is not my dream.
A house on a hill would be nice.
But only because of the house.

Not the hill.

So spare me.

Please.

When you tell me about the wonders of the world.
Realize all I have seen lately are alleyways.
Don't tell me about different cuisines.
When I can only afford the dollar menu.
Don't tell me I can be anything I want
when I can't seem to be able to be anything I need.

Life is not limitless.
The soul is not infinite.
Everything has an expiration date.

I just hope mine isn't tomorrow.
Aditya Sep 2018
When the world pinpoints every Flaw,
Destroying every ounce of Ambition,
She thwarts every judgement with Guffaw,
Rekindling a fire within like a Magician.

An abundance of delightful Cuisines,
Lights, music, what an Atmosphere,
Unmatched to the simplicity of her Beans,
No ambiance, yet so Dear.

A global footprint to Parade,
Mountains, beaches, what’s the next Place?
Sleepless until safety was Conveyed,
Her world residing in merely a Face.

Conquering every assignment, a solo Star,
Virtues unparalleled, is she Human ?
An infinite Heart, almost Bizarre,
A MOTHER or a living Superwoman.
Yours truly would never be confused for a gourmand, nevertheless I could enjoy experiencing taste testing select food samples if offered an opportunity of attending a fancy feast viz smörgåsbord, whereby oral indulgence would arouse, excite, inflict outstanding pleasure upon every taste bud on mine tongue.

Asia generic gastronomy guy, I know how one can wolf down gourmet foods witnessing expanding girth; a destructive transformation clearly beyond any excessive enthusiasm. The necessity to feed and clothe this corporeal essence christened Cookie Muenster revels more so within the medium of writing.

Aspirations toward fame nor fortune less significant than the mere pleasure to concoct a visually savory appetizing epistle. Food for thought more than to fill the void, where growling heard across the world wide web, thus, no anterior, interior or ulterior motive asper begging for money underlies this exercise. yet...if perchance a voluntary choice arises to dole out a smidgen of legal tender a name and address indeed willingly linkedin to this faux popinjay person, who tries to convey decency, humility, levity...qualities that wield zest.

Food glorious food I savor
across the gamut of tastes,
not more than one over another
does yours truly favor.

Though anonymous hungry for fame
well fed writer wannabe and hardly
a substantially sized married baby boomer,
which dual disadvantages partly explains
lack of ubiquity among claque of cooks,
yet cautiously optimistic if I plug away
and craft this, that or another poem
yours truly would be in seventh heaven
if tinkering with words
could bring me bread and butter.

Many popular rotund
corpulent gourmands tame
their hungry beasthood easily put me to shame
vis a vis consuming in their one meal,
what yours truly eats in a lifetime,
none of those celery buddies,
whom this non-television watcher can name
seen on any selective cable channel
portly chaps exuding, inviting,
and offering odysseys
to appease palate uttering l'chaim,

I still revel in writing while on the hunt
(during Red October) for a meme
poetry and prose, and decided
absent clear and present danger
to introduce myself quite lame
with a NON-GMO marginal uptick
in any sudden fortune or fame,
yet twould be pleasantly syrup prized
if desire and interest to enjoy a repast
from potential buxom waitress didst exclaim

enthusiastically ideally after subtly
trying get her attention
said hypothetical well-fed dame,
and if perchance such just desserts
came via the kitchen maiden kitty,
versus kit chin middens
no boastful claim
would be uttered by me,
verboten fruits denied me
mine lack of politesse I would blame
her intellectual company satisfactory aim.

First and foremost on the agenda,
would be to locate an affordable,
casual and favorable eatery
tubby agreeable to our wallet and taste
indubitable choice without
(absent any formal dress code),
lettuce go further haste.

Strait away to the great weigh
(or if vegetarian – whey)
station of delectable food
where the exquisite, expertise, and exotic
high steak king claim on:
Peterson's Field Guide, Michelin Guide,
Gayot Guide/Gault Millau, American
Automobile Association, Forbes
Travel Guide reputation good.

Testimony to legendary praise
explaining why patrons travel
for countless days
transforming him/her
into a steady state,
where he/she shuffles along
in a dishabille quotidian famished daze
far and wide culinary craze
out of this world wide web,
the wispy Uber Lyft
wafts trace steamy filament up braise
through nostrils of our noses,
whereat heads nod affirmation i.e. ayes.

Even before making a glad entrance
(into Restaurant) complete
a host of fresh, enticing,
and delicious aromas serve as a treat.

Delicate, foreign, hefty indescribable
ole factory stimulants delight
infiltrating thru swinging kitchen doors
holding us smell bound,
though thin filaments invisibly light.

Thus upon a strategic seat, we hoped for,
or politely sought from the manager of the house
ah, our luck to be situated in close proximity,
where impossibility to stave off gaming hunger,
though neither myself
nor honorable guest grouse.

Now decision time to select one delicacy equally
as appealing as the next on expansive menu list,
the resultant penultimate
decision method resorted to twist
then flick (with eyes closed) the wrist.

This once difficult task complete
twas now the responsibility of the maitre'd
to store within his/her memory,
which tummy appeared like an amazing
sumptuous (promising scrumptious) feat
Minutes ticked away
as our stomachs growled louder
patiently awaiting the grateful moment
to dine starting with clam chowder
hello poetrysoup compiled
within me taste testing router.

Next in line from smörgåsbord feast
hors-d'oeuvres ample enough
to satiate thine palate
to whet from deep-fried delicacies greased
and self-restraint practiced
so the main course diminished least.

We fell upon butterfly jumbo shrimp
and marinated mushrooms when brought
an atavistic motion that memory wrought.

The Matzo ball soup with Jewish rye bread
went to the gullet with a dollop
of butter thinly spread.

A vegetable, venerable, veritable, and spinach pie
herbivorous delight, the apple of my eye.

Parmigiana, pasta, and poultry
(albeit free-ranging
NON-GMO and gluten-free) dishes galore
kept off the figurative lid
(no matter stuffed to gills
ready to be mounted) to eat more
quite aware that mine waist
bulged whereby beltway buckle tore.

Last (but not least)
at the FINIS of this well-stocked meal
comprises the selection of dessert,
which samples visible
from a glass-enclosed wheel
tickling that reserved “off limits” hot pocket
hashtagged for just such a sugary treat
thus summoning forth
within an engorged abdomen,
nonetheless, an audible zeal.

That reserved allotted sweet
baked, fried, or whipped parfait
or countless other grandiose
mouthwatering delicacy.

Ah...juiced enough wiggle room
for one decadent byte, perchance small
enough to roll around in the mouth,
like a Chocolate Mousse, or a honey ball.

Despite feeling ready to explode
hence yours truly uttering oy vey
simply eyeing a food tray
no longer in an ala mode vis a vis
clamoring for consumption
well aware of the morrow or sooner
this bloated dirigible fulfilled human,
would dearly caloric wise
despite going Dutch heavily pay
witness by need pointing
all the way to highest number
showing us how much we weigh
penny wise pound foolish yay!
Mateuš Conrad Apr 2019
napierdala was prawda.
_______

marvin gaye - heard it through
the grapevine (remastered)...

         well...
                    i can listen to that ****
all day...

i don't even know what these
western supposed "communists"
are doing,

seems i've changed curtains,
came from under an iron curtain,
for a brief while surfaced,
gasped, and was forced below
the waters under the sicilon
curtain...

           it was fun, i have to admit...
what a little nieche we had
on youtube for over 10 years...
before we were taken seriously...

i won't translate those three words,
something else has crossed my attention,
namely regarding the subjects
of the British Raj...

          now... not many people are proud
of being subjegated to a colonial power,
akin to England...
          where did it all begin?
for the english speaking throng: africa...
mind you, i think life started in India...
but these indians and pakistanis in
current day England?
   i've never imagined to see a group
of people, so so proud in being
a formerly colonialißed people:

   why is there so much ****-****-hurt
ambition to "fit it", while keeping
up with selling a sari?
or a niqab?
                  i just imagine the times
relevant to lawrence of arabia...
  **** me, even the kenyans are like:
huh?!
      slave trade my ***...
blame the dutch *******...
        not the Idi Amin of Uganda...
the former kings of Africa who sold
their people into slavery...
you think a dutchman can outrun
a Usain Bolt on the African savannah?!
a lie was sold, by the African rulers...

   and the terrible deed: of picking cotton?
so... so i guess not confined
to mining coal among the leprechauns?!
picking cotton: hard work...
migrant workers from eastern europe
picking strawberries in sweden...
ooh... hard hard labour!

                    sorry, i'm not buying...
but these asians amaze me...
they are actually proud,
of being former colonial subjects...
  they are in full glee when associating
themselves with the, dead british empire,
when, "addressing" european migrants
to england: they actually think in terms
of post-racial superiority...
oh g-g be play cricket too
we drink tea with milk too!
english people eat our curry!
bud bud!

                picking cotton was such a bad
"deal": be thankful the white-boy-*******
were mining coal for you...
   and whaling...
           people are still employed picking
strawberries...
   and in that famous slavic proverb:
what the **** does a (piernik)
          lebkuchen have anything to do
with a windmill?!
   i.e.: what does a gingerbread
                 have to do with a windmill?!

no african slave trade to h'america:
no blues, now jazz, no pop music,
    me, still with a clarinet lodged up my ***...
oh yeah: all bad, b'ah b'ah b'ah bad...

still, back to the asians...
   i would have never come across a sort
of people who would celebrate their former
colonized status...
    so much so, that they would,
exfoliate... brag... and deem it fit to
bring other europeans to their heel...
oh sure... and it's not like the Raj didn't
coorporate with the British authorities...

   somewhere in between the collateral
damage brigade you'll find the righteous...
love the food...
          the Indian cuisine is superior to all
other cuisines in the world...
      m'eh... French or Itallian...
            sure... the French can bake...
an indian chapati is crude, aztec even...
but not even a French croissant can beat
an English crumpet...
           it's so good, that an ex-Russian girlfriend
wanted me to call her crumpet...
enough said...

              i would be the kakasha (little ****)
to her whittle crumpet...
        go figure...

and what an unspectacular life i had led...
and how i've managed to squeeze
as much juice from it,
having now found myself:
completing myself,
without the sort of stature of existential
fulfilment associated with fatherhood...
i'm calling for Kant to be the saint
of bachelors...
         after all...
            patience and rubric,
   discipline... really does pay off.
Tapan jena Nov 2018
All she ever asked,
did I have my dinner on time or not?
And I would say
Yes, mother, I am done with it.
Deep down she would know I am lying.
And I too knew, she knows I’m lying.

Some days, she would ask, what have I eaten?
On others she would tell stories of her adolescence.
On hearing what I’ve eaten?
And I would tell her my favorite cuisines.
Not the same one twice on a row,
Not the ones that’s difficult to prepare on an induction stove.
Frequent lying has made me a master in this art.
However, nothing can be hidden from a mother’s heart.

She would finally give up and let me feel as if I’ve outsmarted her.
So she would quietly sigh
and tell what she found in the temple stairs
Or maybe her dream of having long conversations
With Gods and goddesses who detest my very existence
But won’t use their powers out of fear

What It is I always wanted to hear from her?
Were the unadulterated stories of youth.
The stories of her innocence,
The stories of her rebelliousness
The stories of her sacrifices
Which she would share quite often,
Things she would say, would feel more real
It’s been years, but details are so flawless, how come?

Things are supposed to be forgotten over time
But she remembers it all
as if singularity of a black hole
I am quite certain, it’s only me who knows it all
For she won’t share with anyone the hardships in her tale
I would listen her and ask
Is she missing all that?
She won’t say a thing would remain quite for a moment
I would know somewhere a drop of tear dropped
Covering the reminiscences of her past

And then I would talk of the new cuisine, I’ve developed
Hoping she won’t ask for a photo op
Of me and my unseen food, which I needed to gulp
A master, did i say?

Memories remain with us forever
We should live as they are
Never try to put them in words
They warm you up from inside, they as well, tear you apart.
The last line is definitely Haruki Murakami.
Voici le soir charmant, ami du criminel ;
Il vient comme un complice, à pas de loup ; le ciel
Se ferme lentement comme une grande alcôve,
Et l'homme impatient se change en bête fauve.

Ô soir, aimable soir, désiré par celui
Dont les bras, sans mentir, peuvent dire : Aujourd'hui
Nous avons travaillé ! - C'est le soir qui soulage
Les esprits que dévore une douleur sauvage,
Le savant obstiné dont le front s'alourdit,
Et l'ouvrier courbé qui regagne son lit.
Cependant des démons malsains dans l'atmosphère
S'éveillent lourdement, comme des gens d'affaire,
Et cognent en volant les volets et l'auvent.
À travers les lueurs que tourmente le vent
La Prostitution s'allume dans les rues ;
Comme une fourmilière elle ouvre ses issues ;
Partout elle se fraye un occulte chemin,
Ainsi que l'ennemi qui tente un coup de main ;
Elle remue au sein de la cité de fange
Comme un ver qui dérobe à l'homme ce qu'il mange.
On entend çà et là les cuisines siffler,
Les théâtres glapir, les orchestres ronfler ;
Les tables d'hôte, dont le jeu fait les délices,
S'emplissent de catins et d'escrocs, leurs complices,
Et les voleurs, qui n'ont ni trêve ni merci,
Vont bientôt commencer leur travail, eux aussi,
Et forcer doucement les portes et les caisses
Pour vivre quelques jours et vêtir leurs maîtresses.

Recueille-toi, mon âme, en ce grave moment,
Et ferme ton oreille à ce rugissement.
C'est l'heure où les douleurs des malades s'aigrissent !
La sombre Nuit les prend à la gorge ; ils finissent
Leur destinée et vont vers le gouffre commun ;
L'hôpital se remplit de leurs soupirs. - Plus d'un
Ne viendra plus chercher la soupe parfumée,
Au coin du feu, le soir, auprès d'une âme aimée.

Encore la plupart n'ont-ils jamais connu
La douceur du foyer et n'ont jamais vécu !

— The End —