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Dr zik Mar 2015
Birds ate there all eatables
Flapping there wings as a dance
Trimming and preen of the wings
Jump here there, loosing no chance
                  
Black, blue, brown-their cute colors
Short, long, slim, heavy, light weight
Wings and flight-memorable
All in hurry to have fate

Chirp in low high sound, fresh  mood
They were neat, beautiful smart
Search everywhere-want of food
Giving an end, at the start                  
                            
Each-one looking for some good
Bit sip enough to quench thirst
No one waiting, for its turn
A cute *** bird, find it first
            
While the lyrics touch my soul
Chirp, chirp, chirp was their tweet, song
Making a norm; fresh my mood
Melodious-their sweet song

Ripe fruit there-serve passer-by
There were trees to grant a shade
There was rule-'No Restriction'
Beauty of leaves-not yet fade
                
Pan was waiting to serve all
One sharp sip-hurry to fly
Child fell down-knocked at rock
Help! Help! Shout- innocent cry
                
Sound dangerous, **** of earth
Crackling, falling, housing, wall
Help, no rescue-love or hate
Site was change in front of all
              
No charm, fame, concert at all
There was no work, club or shop
Speech for help was useless try
No search team or rescue dare
            
Winking eyes now-teary one
Nobody could found there a bun
There no signs of living one
No care there, no deal, no done

Birds ate there all eatables
Flapping there wings-as a dance
Trimming and preen of the wings
Jump here there, loosing no chance
                              
Chirp, chirp sad song-low high sound
They were neat, beautiful smart
Search everywhere-want of food
Giving an end, at the start
                            
Each-one looking-for some good
Bit sip enough, quench the thirst
No one waiting, for its turn
Cute bird could not find it first

While the Iyrics, touch my soul
Chirp, chirp, chirp was their  sad song
Making a norm, my sad mood
Melodious, fair sad song

No fruit there for passer-by
No trees there to grant a shade
They were buried, there, somewhere
No green leaves at risk of fade
          
All the owners, slept and pressed
Sound dangerous-lifeless rock
Ruined everywhere-tragic song
Mud, stone, sand all cause of shock

No help, care there, love or hate
There was silence as no play
No pan waiting there at all
Birds could find a broken tray

You reveal it then I know
My pangs are more than a sea
There is link between the two
Soul and a body, You and me
Dr. Zik's poetry
History (Muzzafarabad):
The city was near the epicenter of the 2005 Kashmir earthquake, which had a magnitude of 7.6. The earthquake destroyed 50% of the buildings in the city (including most of the official buildings) and is estimated to have killed up to 80,000 people in the Pakistani-controlled areas of Kashmir. As of 8 October 2005 the Pakistani government's official death toll was 87,350. Some estimates put the death toll over 100,000
Noor Jun 2018
I'm just a stopover
For you to relax in
You read your book on the train
You hear the songs of longing
Overlooking the window

I'm just a stopover
On your long journey
You put your head on my chest
And your head is full of her
You take my heart, and your heart is hers

I'm just a stopover
Just a passing song
That you forget the words to
You stutter my name, and call me by hers

I planted a garden
Filled with love
But you gave it back
And turned to a single rose
She gave to you
She, whom you want
She, who does not want you
You run after her like a stray dog
Begging for affection
Happy for a piece of bread that she gives to you
Waiting for a word from her
And ignoring the songs I wrote for you

I'm just a stopover
She is your stray road
Your final destination
A deserted city
And there you are,
On the ruins crying
The house I built for you is abandoned
My poor heart is abandoned
Which burns when I see your eyes when you look at her
When I see you are still hugging her clothes
I remained silent
As I have sworn not to talk
I swore not to mention her
I swore that I’ll bite my tongue, swallow my pride and my fear
And you swore to yourself
That you will always be hers
Even if she’s not yours
Even if I gave you all of me.
elaine Jul 2018
empty houses and car-less streets,
this town holds beauty without residence.

people move into this town of beauty and run up and down the streets damaging little by little slowly.

the people take away the beauty and throw it all away for their selfish needs,
they build tall tall buildings and put gas into the lovely clean air.

leaving this town a horrible disease.
With Swollen Tears did my Countrymen commit
In week's Soliloquy request for Aid
And Soul's own Moments whose Sympathy permit
Whilst Sheltered Families pray for more space
Pledge, dear Lord! And Citisens of the World
My People's Wounds soaked in Unwanted Rain
At least in Voice and Gift-Wishes unfold
Would indeed suffice to soften their Pain
Look, Union Jack! The Scenes of Caskets float,
Plastered houses a-washed with nails and wood
Then came the Bayanis, in rubbers and boats
Bore frozen Victims to their Neighbourhood.
It's a Sad Film for anyone to see
Please offer Burnt Roses; Make them Happy.
she describes her shelter like moths are stuck in her throat
her eyes are glossy as she says "it's a cute little house... our family will be fine... thank you"
but I know the familiar scent of polished floors much like a hospital
in a home that is not your home
I have changed homes too many times this year
slept in beds that did not belong to me
with the scent of someone else on my sheets
I have been in two foster type group homes where the kid's faces are drained with lack of affection and we only have: books, board games and each other
I have been in three different  behavioral hospitals where the girls are like sponges full of water and you can hear them sobbing at night, where the nurses play mom and comfort you when parents are mad at "our choices"
homes sometimes aren't homes they are cold lonely houses
they are places to sleep and eat and shower
PC classic Feb 2017
city concrete crawling horizons

all preposterous blazing everywhere

THE GODS DOTH FEEL OF SUNSETS
like my wallet feels about emptiness

I am Mr neanderthal
flinting boring words
to light up one poem
to save myself from those nights that don't stop at the door

All I desire at this point is simple unchanging dullness
like drawing Tom with running shoes and Jerry with a Tom resistant suit


the streets are empty but the windows come alive
and the houses wake up
and there is light from the TV
and a child watching Disney Cartoons
and a parent ringing the doorbell
and dinner table conversations with the evening news on

and outside the dogs on the street chase every other vehicle that pass by

You don't even have a license.
emily mikkelsen Apr 2017
between the concrete river
& the park where the bums share a bottle
wrapped in a brown paper sack,

there is a cul-de-sac of plastic houses
holding hands & sharing manicured lawns
wooden cars that don't even make any smoke
drive down gray asphalt streets.

fathers that tell mothers they have jobs
wear down street corners sharing beers with the bums,
like they already are one.

all these paper families rubbing shoulders
until everyone has paper cuts.
going home to dinner around a table full of paper love.

suburbia is flimsy
paper towns shining white
smiling neighbors & shared lawns
paper people slowly falling apart.

couples with their tongues down each other's throats,
midnight in supermarket parking lots
dribbling beer in the backseat
they bought off the bums.  

they say,
I love you, I love you, I love you.
until she leaves for a paper husband
& he leaves for a paper wife.

now they live on two separate cul-de-sacs
with the same cutout love,
as the parents they despised.

& when they have kids one day
they will tell them
never kiss before driving,
never befriend bums,
or guzzle cheap beer in backseats,
or on park swings.
& never settle for a paper husband
or a paper wife.


remembering the love
that was flimsy,
but never paper.

100,000 miles away from where they grew up
& 3,000 miles away from each other
3 kids each & plastic houses
rubbing shoulders & sharing lawns

living in a paper thin suberbia
chafing under their paper love.
inspired by "Paper Towns" by John Green
Thesunking Apr 2018
What do most people do,
In their beautiful houses?
What do most people do
after building their beautiful nests?

If you are expecting a single answer, it's not the best.
Although most people lay down
on their bed the whole day.
Many sit on the couch with their girlfriend,friend or family-
Probably watching Tele.

I know people who love kissing
their soul mates by the chimney,
While there are men
by their window,
Waiting for a ****** at mid night 3

There are people who feed on frozen
Pizzas the whole day,
While there is someone counting every Rupee that would together
make a dinner.

Someone and his wife is having ***.
There is someone playing with his kid,
At the park across the gate.

You don't know
About people at mid 80's
Waiting for death.
Like kids do for rewards,
While there is someone afraid of dying
As he lies on his death bed.

There are people crying-
    Someone lost lost his mother,
    Someone lost her pet,
    Someone got bullied
While someone choked Someone to death.

An old man wanting to live.
A teen by his bed drafting a
Clean suicide.

A kid trying to strum basic chords.
A teen just snapped her guitar into two.

A girl happy as she is applying her makeup.
A girl and her **** relationship  with the mirror.

But do you know-
They all leave their houses
Many do,
Some really don't.

And then at the end of the day,
some came back.
Some did.
And many did not.

Celebration or defeat
Cold by the lake
Or by the bed,

Not many people are happy,
And I don't know why
I cannot see them.
Bottled words for wrecked sailors
july hearne Oct 2018
mighty mighty miners  
mining for a heart of cryptocurrency  
mighty mighty houses  
might end up empty  

for fake fortune  
your drop of wine  
your speck of grain  
for fake fortune  

nec·ro·man·cers quick with answers
will you be their broke financiers  
will you be their paraplegic dancers  

you've got nothing to lose  
just a shield of children  
wielding weapons  
no one knows how to use  

mighty mighty miners  
mine on empty  
too much vacancy  
in a heart of cryptocurrency  

all one person  
all one horsemen  
all fake fortune  
all one horsemen  

wish NPC weren't too dumb to understand
mighty mighty houses built upon sand
because every time jeff eats an iguana,  
he's got the whole free market in his hands.
*Roky Erickson - I Think of Demons

Micah 2:2
They covet fields and seize them, and houses, and take them. They defraud people of their homes, they rob them of their inheritance.



ISAIAH 5:8 (MSG Version)
"Doom to you who buy up all the houses and grab all the land for yourselves— Evicting the old owners, posting no trespassing signs, Taking over the country, leaving everyone homeless and landless. I overheard God-of-the-Angel-Armies say: “Those mighty houses will end up empty. Those extravagant estates will be deserted. A ten-acre vineyard will produce a pint of wine, a fifty-pound sack of seed, a quart of grain.
Paul Hansford Aug 2016
(Pompeii/Florence, 1997)

Vulcan was real, alive as you were,
you and your language, long dead now.
Your town was prosperous, with its paved streets,
bars, bath-houses, brothels,
mosaics, painted walls, graffiti.
Your domestic gods too were real to you;
they had saved you before,
and when the superhuman hammer blows shook
your houses, you repaired them,
decorated in greater splendour,
erected a temple to your protectors.
But Vulcan was not appeased - years are not long
to the lord of earth and fire.
This time he struck swiftly, sending you death
from his mountain, overwhelming you
as you ran. Your garden
gave you no protection,
hot fumes choked you,
hot ash surrounded you,
sealed in your tomb as you died.

They excavated your town,
marvelled at its completeness.
In the ash that filled your garden
they found hollows,
and, filling the hollows with plaster,
found you. No, not you,
but echoes of yourselves,
like statues in a museum.

We came to see you, and after that
to the Academy, standing in awe
at David's perfect marble humanity.
But we were troubled by the others,
the uncompleted ones, the Prisoners,
their twisted limbs, hidden faces,
frozen in the act of emerging
from the stone, recalling too painfully
in their unfinished creation
your own agonised poses
as you died.
"I had seen birth and death,
  but had thought they were different."

.
The quotation at the end is from Eliot's Journey of the Magi - see my collection "My Favourite Poetry".
For photos see - www.amusingplanet.com/2011/04/garden-of-fugitives-fossilized-victims.html
and - www.accademia.org/explore-museum/artworks/michelangelos-prisoners-slaves/
july hearne Jun 2017
when Merry Clayton
sings "Southern Man"
i think of all of you
and i think *******

and if i was Neil Young
i would start a band called Hateful Bigot
and Mike Watt would be the bass player
and i would write a song
called "social justice warrior"
(in all lower case)
and dedicate it to all the children that have been ***** by the *** mayor of your tiny house town
and Merry Clayton would sing that song

there is a parade in tiny house town
for everyone who's arrived 50 years too late to the civil rights party
and the  mayor is coming round
to shake your hand

all your tiny houses coming down
all your tiny houses built upon the sand
tiny, tiny houses get smaller and smaller before blowing down

everytime you shake his hand
you have even less to say
about all the children he *****
than the NRA

even less to say than the NRA
everytime the *** mayor rolls down the windows
before he rapes the children in his hot car
everytime he's comes around
to shake your hand
he's got ten dollars in his other hand

tiny, tiny houses blowing down
all your tiny houses built upon the sand
i can't wait til they come down
all your tiny houses coming down
tiny, tiny houses coming down

(nothing to do with the fact
he's a *** democrat
nothing to do with the fact)
ed murray is the *** mayor of seattle. he ***** children and is likely still ****** them. one of them was his foster son. he denies these allegations in the manner of a text book lying child ******. he lied about ever knowing his foster son who he ***** (and who was later then proven to be his foster son). he also had wanted to be a catholic priest but left the seminary (probably got kicked out for child ****).   he was not forced to resign because it is not convenient to ask a ***, democrat mayor to step down, which is why i will always refer to him as the *** mayor who rapes children.  he gets a free pass on ****** children. this poem is dedicated to everyone who turns a blind eye to child **** and excuses it (especially ***** like sally bagshaw), and sadly that includes organizations such as glaad.

ed murray, *** mayor of seattle who rapes children, attended the *** pride parade and shook hands with the parade goers, who were delighted to shake the hand of a child ******. only it's not ****, since he is a *** democrat who gave the children $10 to **** them.

seattle has become unaffordable because of amazon, high levels of taxation (by a city cuntcil who supports a child ****** as mayor and the child ****** mayor himself), a housing shortage (caused by amazon and citizens of china who make money on slave labor and then make inflated all cash offers on the real estate here so the people who actually live here can't afford it).

something tells me this one won't go over well, but that's ok with me, since people who turn a blind eye to child **** are the **** of the earth. my next poem will be about what a **** sally bagshaw is. she loves our *** mayor who has done nothing but lie, flounder around like an idiot, allow amazon and comcast to **** us over, steal money, waste money, increase homelessness and **** children. ed murray also loves sharia law, since it conveniently has no laws against ****** children.

the NRA had better make some sort of public statement of support for philando castile and his family and  should have already done so. that man and his family were not shown any justice and neither were the children that ed murray *****, not to mention the children he is still ******.

we live in ******* times and the ones screaming the loudest are the ones who need to shut the **** up the most.


from ed murray's twitter page:

Ed Murray‏Verified account @MayorEdMurray  May 19

It's finally warming up, which is great - but not for all. Beware of the danger pets and children face in hot cars!
CA Guilfoyle Aug 2017
I think it quite strange living here walled by this house
when I was wilder than now I lived in nature
stalking birds and pollen laden things
always my toes in sands or hot footed in summer.
I was in love with the sky, no matter the weather
in storms I hid beneath branching cedars
sleeping on mossy pillows, in the woods of my backyard.
I never gave much thought to houses then, I only went there
to sleep or eat and waited to leave again
waited for an inkling of sun to warm the cold grass
spent days climbing trees, red plums and cherries
I imagined that's how life would always be,
living outdoors under the sun or clouds
wet with rain, always picking flowers.
Ankit J Chheda Oct 2016
I want to promise to build you a castle,
But there are no castles any more,
I want to make you my queen,
But the kingdoms are now countries,
I hoped to make you a house in the suburbs,
With fewer houses we move to urbanity,
Despite my complaints and empty ambitions,
Wherever life takes me, with you is my home.
John Ryles Apr 2010
The two collieries where I was employed,
Houses now stand winders destroyed.
From a window where I controlled the flow,
I could see the horizon far and low.
I can also see sunrise and set,
Pictures past I won’t forget.
Through the shifts seasons would go,
From summer sun to winter snow.
To wake one morning already too late,
Decisions were made to close the gate.
Work was gone and mates were lost,
Ripped apart at great cost.
Left us with a grey slurry beach,
The nanny goat path we walked to reach.
Down to the coast a ***** line,
Carried shale from the mine.
Through our town they ran so fast,
To tip more waste upon the blast.
Now I sit where I want to be,
Looking out at the great North Sea.
From chemical beach to clean east shore,
The north east pits are no more.
From brownie box in old dark room,
To Digital with super zoom.
Memories fade but photos show,
All we really need to know.
St Marys church to Hawthorn hive,
These scenes of Seaham will survive.
Peter Gareth Apr 27
I miss you
Rocking in your rocking chair
Watching that lame talk show
Staring at me obliviously
You barely even talked, to be honest
But yet you made an empty house feels like home
Some simple lines I wrote about my grandma. Lately I've been missing her so much...
Robert Ronnow Aug 2015
I like immigrants, immigration. Legal immigration, Jane
passionately corrects. Actually my goal is a borderless world.
That's a new idea to her.
Gathering the neighborhood like family.
The men discuss sterilizing welfare mothers. I say You're working
      around the edges,
humanity has exceeded the carrying capacity of the planet,
even those with jobs. And spouses. And houses.
Yet it's an idyll of an early summer evening, new cut grass,
two baseball teams of children playing in it. Safe from Pakistan.
News photos of Muslim refugees, women in blue robes, biblically
carrying children away from holocaust. The fundamentalist army
not far behind, beheading sinners, sure in its righteousness
as the Holy Roman Empire.

Somehow Joel Osteen the evangelist comes up
while talking about how the Catholic Church is irrelevant in North
      America,
even Latin America and Africa are going evangelical.
Izzi likes Osteen, awesome extemporaneous speaker, no teleprompter,
up from bootstraps message and my wife says he's probably Jewish.
No one wants to go there.
Fortunately no one claims the Holocaust never happened or slavery
      was voluntary.
What is the carrying capacity of the planet? Two children
have replacement value. In China is it each couple or each adult that gets
one offspring? As life expectancy and standards rise,
family size diminishes. We draw together into greener, tighter cities
surrounded by farms surrounded by forests.
The children of three monotheistic religions, atheists and agnostics
play in city streets, work farm fields, explore forests, deserts,
      grasslands, space.

Two ancient female poets: Enheduanna and Sappho
are a revelation. The clarity of their complaints:
lost lover, lost city.
www.ronnowpoetry.com
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