"habitants" poems
Oh! Rama!
Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they tread!
Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mamons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
That will bring peace, progress, stability, justice and unity; not Pax Romana
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 28, 2012 at 10:48 AM UTC
Oh! Rama!
Oh! Rama,”reme ithi rama”
(Makes us happy so Rama!)
Here, mourn and sigh Ahalyas
In every atom of rocky hearts
Of India; as Sahasralingas spy.
Ambush, spring on praying preys.
Rushi Gauthams suspicious curse
In repentance they bless retribution.
Oh! Rama, with your soft feet touch,
Liberate the poor pious chaste Ahalyas,
Sathi, Savitri, Seetha and Panchali,O!
Sultana Raziya, Jhansi Rani ,Indira Gandhi,
Think of their vicissitudes, the path they trod!
Patriarchy exerts pressure on Matriarchy, O!Mum!
Bharat matha is molested by Kuberas and Mammons.
And her daughters are robbed and ***** ruthlessly, alas!
Oh! Rama,”Dharma Samsthapanardhaya “come with dirge
Of the degenerated culture of Vultures, save thy women folk.
Make people to think right, to follow right path, to tell true words.
To live in Eeman (Dharma) not to inflict pain to other co-habitants.
Without negative there is no use of positive, so is woman and man.
They are like protons and electrons to the flux of family life peaceful.
Oh! Rama , teach, Dharmorakshati Rakshita:,”repentance gives retribution
That will bring peace, progress, stability, justice and unity; not “Pax Romana”..
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 6:03 AM UTC
One can never persuade already persuaded.
Ergo:
You've got to fight your own battles beneath your mind's capacity to always win the self-righteous 'believed' ethics imposed unto others and wisely remain silent for awhile.
Let your life style, active philosophy and true deeds speak for themselves!
Nov 29, 2015
Nov 29, 2015 at 3:00 PM UTC
**** nation
Conversing with ammunitions.
Hearts that are barely loyal
Being served by humbled soldiers.
No wonder peace has been conquered
And war the man on the altar.
Her habitants live like their souls are on trial
And their god a liar.
**** nation
Her masses are speechless creatures
Ruled in cluelessness
Jubilating in bitterness.
**** Nation
Driven by greedy intentions
Stomach fed with promises
Sleeping and waking in calamities.
**** nation
The fat ones are the vultures
Termites and cankerworms haven
The thinning path between hell and heaven.
**** nation
Where the safest place is the grave
Saints nation rebirth to a **** nation
Where unity and faith are slaves.
Hmm! My **** nation of tears
Unfortunately, I'm fortunate to be born here
blessed with everything, cursed with leadership,
Born into miseries, dying in hardship.
A **** nation in a tunnel
Crowded with diverse starlets
Being forced to drain down the funnel
Crying blood for a spark soonest.
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 10:40 AM UTC
La sensation s'apparente à une simple présence
Incongrue et abstraite, tant sa distance
De ces souvenirs qui exigent le poids des vivants
Comme promesse qu'ensemble nous traverserons le temps
Et tend à cette conviction presque vide de sens
Que les acteurs éternels de la tendre enfance
Puissent ainsi, pas à pas, suivre nos traces dans l'ombre
Pour que ce peuple d'éther ne s'ajourne que dans la tombe
Et que tombe cette folle histoire insensée, peu à peu
Que le temps calcinera de son souffle de feu
Ranimant en nous la flamme de ces instants d'ivresse
Pour que reste derrière nous ces souvenirs délestés
Et mieux vaut de son gré engendrer la cadence
Que de subir dans la l'angoisse les désirs de délivrance
Délaissant patiemment toute envie de se réjouir
Pour que s'endorme dans la cendre ces trop lourds souvenirs
Et quand viendra finalement la sensation de dissonance,
Que la lourdeur de l'homme aspirant la transcendance
S'exténue et s'allège dans l'accord des déceptions
Pour qu'enfin vive souverain ce pays d'ombres et d'illusions.
Et que sombre dérisoirement chaque pensée, peu à peu,
Que le temps effacera d'un seul geste d'adieux
Renvoyant au néant l'âme de ces habitants célestes
Pour que ne gise sur la toile qu'une confuse fresque.
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 5:50 PM UTC
Haute Chaleur sur Toulouse.
Cet été que nous avions
Tant attendu, tant espéré,
Pestant contre les giboulées
Qui éternisaient le printemps.
Ces pluies continuelles,
Donnant du vert aux jardins et balcons,
Et tant d'humidité sournoise,
Mais peu propices aux joies des places et des rues.
Et puis soudain, le si lourde chaleur
S'est installé sans crier garde
Avec ses manières de «sirocco»,
Comme un grand coup de poing
Qui terrasse les êtres.
L'air est devenu rare et l'ambiance des terrasses plombée.
Ma chienne s'est réfugiée sous les lits.
Et nos corps ont du mal à s'adapter
A ces flamboiements de chaleur
A ce fond de l'air qui crépite sans cigale.
A cette lourdeur du temps qui ´nous assomme.
A ce manque d'air qui nous fait désirer
La fraîcheur vivifiante,
Des montagnes et du bord de mer.
Les tuiles semblent remises au four
Et les tuiles se fendent sous la chaleur.
C'est un temps de sabbats de sorcières,
Et de chaudrons bouillants.
Et l'on s'en veut d'avoir tant appelé
A la venue de cet assommoir de l'été,
Qui tient désormais Toulouse.
Prisonnière dans ses serres,
Chacune Murmurant et gémissant,
A la venue l'orage qui nous trempera d'eaux,
Versées à grosse gouttes.
L'irruption de l'été a Toulouse
Se fait d'un coup et impose sa force
Les habitants qui le peuvent, fuient
Dans les Pyrénées,
Ou vers les bords de mer.
Cette période est dure aux personnes âgées et aux malades.
Sauf pour les "Happy Few" qui possèdent,
Villas, jardins touffus et piscines.
L'été Toulousain est un maître impérieux
Qui impose ses tempos et ses rythmes.
Paul Arrighi
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 5:05 AM UTC
Le colosse pleure.
Il bouillonne
Il a soif.
Il crie de sa voix frémissante :
H2O !
Ses lèvres sont en ébullition
Il délire
Il voit partout ton eau en mirage
H2O ! H2O !
Hache deux eaux ! Hache deux eaux !
Et tu ne sais que faire
Pour le faire taire.
Tu lui murmures un cantique à l'oreille
Zozo lait, zozo lait rhum
Et tu l'allaites de ton fleuve tiède
Essi ozo
Solide liquide et gazeuse
Il te trait à gros bouillons
Essi ozo
Hache deux eaux
Essi ozo
Les eaux de la Volta
Les eaux de la Seine
Les eaux des Trois Rivières
Et des Vieux-Habitants
Les eaux du Gange
Bouent et s'évaporent
À cent degrés C
En grosses bulles sulfureuses
Au coin de ses lèvres chaudes
Qui s'abreuvent dans l'oasis de ta béatitude .
Oct 29, 2019
Oct 29, 2019 at 5:52 AM UTC
What was about 2 a. m. that always inspired her? Why did the sky have to be pitch dark for her to finally find her answer? Why couldn’t she simply control her mind at her own will? She wondered all of this as she lay in bed; her room was completely obscure, her computer screen the only source of light. She continued typing, the keyboard composing a uniform beat as she translated her abstract thoughts, regular habitants of her subconscious, in to words. Dark san serif characters that by themselves meant nothing but united could open worlds that have never been conceived before. She sighted pausing as she realized a word didn’t work at all, she racked her brains till she found a synonym that enabled the harmony of the prose to lighten. She smiled as she always did when she realized how writing was an intricate and bewildering process. How it took a life of its own and made her simply a tool to the construction of whatever was dying to get out of her limited human intellect.
Jul 15, 2011
Jul 15, 2011 at 7:41 AM UTC
I live in a city on the river
Beautiful scenery, colourful people
In this city on the river
Frigid winter's, unstable summers
In this city on the river
A gorgeous villain
Is this city on the river
Kidnapping the young
Trapping them forever
In this city on the river
Only a few escape
This city on the river
Promises of wealth
Habitants with perfect health
But cease to live
In this city on the river.
Jun 9, 2013
Jun 9, 2013 at 10:19 PM UTC
Games of hilly chase
Lizards playing in the field
Ploughing beds as we chant songs
In crescendo the singers pick, rising and falling
Nursery beds are laid and cover
Into a hut all round to eat
Resting with a local brew
Swear rustics life is fun
Communal cordiality it breeds
Love and compassion it shows
Peace and unity it arrests
Marriage of oneness it feeds
Deeds of others are attain to fastly
Hunting is made by all as they share equally
Praying to gods for a fruitful harvest
Deposing one who breaks the communal law
Everything is relative to all habitants of rustic life
In fun we play in the sun and run in the rain
In fun we dance on the hill and climb the trees
In fun we laugh to our civility backing all form of disunity
by Martin Ijir
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 2:11 PM UTC
An arc of embodiment
Decadent perfumed petticoats swirled to order
Power ****** from the sweat of the land
Stone hewn from its very foundations
A spider's web encloses the flowering art
Phoenician helmeted raiders
Roman taxing invaders
Trespassing Gaulish voices
Thumbed rosary transcenders
The dawn of a walled resistance
A Religious pandemic
Storming Carcistes
Razats rebel
Friends denounce their own
A castle evokes revolutionary fever
Ghosts reverberate running the embattlements
Proletarians open the walls
Guardians red and blue
White clergy take the souls
Swords discarded, a tricolore soars
Slaves to the chisel
Open pits for Vulcan to dip his toes
Gothic Cavernous quarried vaults
in search of Sade’s demons
Stone to shape Provencal style
Dereliction a Maquis delight
Refuging resistance and the persecuted
Destruction and collapse
Artisans and folk revive
Paint brushes to the fore
Transientents page the streets with blood red gold
A coat of arms rings its bell
Lowly hovels now adored
Gaping holes swallow the light
Sleepers enrichen the ground
Too long a museum
Stirring string notes
Cherups embrace their calling
Voices rouse the deities
Banners furl in mistral breaths
Spirits hightail Lacoste’s new allies
Iced sun rises over Luberons range
Warmth caresses the blood of day
School children playing, wake the sleepy
Warm stews vie with Pistou
Hallowed vines are groomed
Long walks with herbs to find
Boars try and outwit their hunters
Dogs smell the truffles afar
Ventoux snows cool the view
Cyclists roar through in celebration
Village a transforming microcosm
Artists absorb, evolving a creation
Animate habitants living and the vogue
A hearty cocooned culture emerging out into
longer days luring the coming spring
Feb 8, 2021
Feb 8, 2021 at 9:51 AM UTC
There’s many legends told of those who tended to the nets
Whose talents brought grown men to tears, made bookies hedge their bets.
One man’s special gift was to make the goal lamp glow
Therein begins the woeful tale of Red Light Racicot.
The story starts at Granby in Quebec’s junior ranks,
Where pimply youths have slapshots which seem fired from tanks,
And flashy cat-quick goaltenders will often steal the show;
Alas, no such heroics came from Red Light Racicot.
The ease he was beat stick-side left his goalie coaches dumb.
Granby supporters prayed as one that they would trade the ***
They called him “Ancient Mariner” (stopping one in three or so),
Surely Les Habitants would not sign Red Light Racicot.
But indeed, Les Canadiens dragooned him in the draft,
Fully convincing one and all that Serge Savard was daft.
Children throughout the province prayed *Dear merciful God, No!
Don’t let our Forum bear the taint of Red Light Racicot.*
But then came a stretch where Patrick Roy’s work had been poor,
And Hayward and Vinny Riendeau had each been shown the door.
And Montreal fans heard the saddest words they’d ever know:
…Starting in goal this evening is Red Light Racicot.
He flailed at wobbly wristers and wound up on his ****
And gave up much more five-hole than any village ****
Even cross-check befogged Savard knew it was time to go
And mercifully, he released poor Red Light Racicot
In Heaven there’s a glowing rink where gods of hockey skate:
Maurice Richard, Howie Lorenz, all of the truly great.
In one net, Georges Vezina makes saves with stick and toe
But someday they’ll all float soft goals past Red Light Racicot.
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 10:01 AM UTC
Sonnet.
Pluviôse, irrité contre la ville entière,
De son urne à grands flots verse un froid ténébreux
Aux pâles habitants du voisin cimetière
Et la mortalité sur les faubourgs brumeux.
Mon chat sur le carreau cherchant une litière
Agite sans repos son corps maigre et galeux ;
L'âme d'un vieux poète erre dans la gouttière
Avec la triste voix d'un fantôme frileux.
Le bourdon se lamente, et la bûche enfumée
Accompagne en fausset la pendule enrhumée,
Cependant qu'en un jeu plein de sales parfums,
Héritage fatal d'une vieille hydropique,
Le beau valet de coeur et la dame de pique
Causent sinistrement de leurs amours défunts.
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I am the forest,
I know this to be true.
Cicadas singing, an orchestra for two.
Feel the music inside of you.
Dance with me tonight,
let your body free.
I will take you in,
out of your misery.
Sing your heart, sing your soul,
we all want to feel your whole.
Spirits dancing, playing about.
Shh, be careful not to shout.
The moonlight shining its warm, honest beems,
to let you swim in our beautiful streams.
Love us, as we love you,
The circle of life, giving unto you.
Dance with me tonight,
and let your body free.
Take in me, the almighty.
Feel my dirt under your toes,
smell the freedom in your nose.
Dance and let your wings come free,
feel me in my entirety.
Breathe me in, hear my sounds,
know nothing is out of bounds.
I am the forest,
almighty and strong.
Hear my music all night long.
Feel the wind flow through your hair,
run real fast with out a care.
Look at me, with all of my beauty,
animals, my habitants, with no fury.
Loving one another, playing about.
Hey look, the sun's come out!
Leaves and flowers, soaking it in,
beeming and gleeming seeing their new friends.
Caterpillars munching a leafy snack, squirrels hopping over the cracks.
Some are falling asleep, while others are fighting to make their keep.
Exploring and investigating every sound,
joyful with every bound.
Cicadas still singing, an orchestra for two.
Mating and creating, something new.
I am the forest,
I know this to be true.
So when am I going to meet you?
Jun 17, 2016
Jun 17, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
Jéhova de la terre a consacré les cimes ;
Elles sont de ses pas le divin marchepied,
C'est là qu'environné de ses foudres sublimes
Il vole, il descend, il s'assied.
Sina, l'Olympe même, en conservent la trace ;
L'Oreb, en tressaillant, s'inclina sous ses pas ;
Thor entendit sa voix, Gelboé vit sa face ;
Golgotha pleura son trépas.
Dieu que l'Hébron connait, Dieu que Cédar adore,
Ta gloire à ces rochers jadis se dévoila ;
Sur le sommet des monts nous te cherchons encore ;
Seigneur, réponds-nous ! es-tu là ?
Paisibles habitants de ces saintes retraites,
Comme l'ont entendu les guides d'Israël,
Dans le calme des nuits, des hauteurs où vous êtes
N'entendez-vous donc rien du ciel ?
Ne voyez-vous jamais les divines phalanges
Sur vos dômes sacrés descendre et se pencher ?
N'entendez-vous jamais des doux concerts des anges
Retentir l'écho du rocher ?
Quoi ! l'âme en vain regarde, aspire, implore, écoute ;
Entre le ciel et nous, est-il un mur d'airain ?
Vos yeux, toujours levés vers la céleste voûte,
Vos yeux sont-ils levés en vain ?
Pour s'élancer, Seigneur, où ta voix les appelle,
Les astres de la nuit ont des chars de saphirs,
Pour s'élever à toi, l'aigle au moins a son aile ;
Nous n'avons rien que nos soupirs !
Que la voix de tes saints s'élève et te désarme,
La prière du juste est l'encens des mortels ;
Et nous, pêcheurs, passons: nous n'avons qu'une larme
A répandre sur tes autels.
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