"incidents" poems
I gaze into my crystal ball, discern amidst the haze
A world so far removed from that of now, it would amaze,
Where catapulting incidents collide like billiard *****
And sense defies belief as renaissance makes the calls.
Blueprints fresh from Internet supply the suitcase blast
Where the terrorist’s, simultaneously, ignite in cities cast
From Moscow to New York, Beijing to Berlin
Gay Paree to London town then way out east again,
Budapest, Jerusalem Calcutta burning all
And Tokyo is levelled in a ghastly nuclear pall.
Kneejerk reaction triggers contrails in the blue
Crisscrossing all the continents obliterating through
An overkill so vicious that in seconds it is past
And the living cling in horror, bearing witness… aghast.
Restraints are erased as the opportunists dash
Flotillas from the Spratleys sprint to occupy and cash
In on the minerals, oil and potential food supplies
Of uncontaminated nations found beneath Pacific skies.
Hindi, Jew and Muslim settle scores bereft with years
Of resentment accrued in a flood of blood and tears.
A sudden realisation of immensity of loss
Curtails the destruction in retrenchment across
The habitable outposts, the dearth of supply
And the daunting prospects of a nuclear winter sky.
Global collapse of all electronic gear
No power, no phones, and no cars now…for years.
Electromagnetic impulse put paid to all that
And the day is as dark as the cold night is black.
And here all we sit, in the here and the now
On the verge of catastrophes’ teetering tower,
With a fools pudgy finger just inches above
The nuclear button…and all that we love.
……You fear the insanity, sense the insane
Knowing that people like this are holding the reign?
Knowing that volatility strikes
Like the shot of a gun and the ****** of a knife.
I don’t have the answers to hand
But someone out there, knows how…and can.
The sands of time are running thin
URGENTLY needed a LEADER...to WIN!
M.
Planet Earth
6 March 2019
Mar 6, 2019
Mar 6, 2019 at 12:46 AM UTC
Forget chivalry
Forget familiar nicety
Best tread carefully
I'm not my usual me
I'll not be the hero... Doing good
Simply because I'm in no mood
I'll go about my business
Steer clear, don't be careless
No sweet chirping of birds
Only sarcasm laden words
I'll wear no smile... Only smirks
Behind which may hold sharpened dirks
Don't waltz into my space
Like you know your place
Don't think I won't lash
Don't think I won't be brash
No 'Mister Niceguy'
Just let this day go by
With no alarms, no surprises
No incidents, no clashes
I might be back tomorrow
But today you must know
As I lace my steeltoed boot
Today I don my antihero suit
Nov 2, 2014
Nov 2, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
Every friend when meets,
Seems an angel sent to us,
By the god from his providence,
But when departs after fulfilling,
His ends selfish and cunning,
All incidents of past moving.
In sky of our inner gloomy world,
Making us cry and buzzing sad,
Echo of pain within ending world.
Jun 14, 2025
Jun 14, 2025 at 5:09 AM UTC
The heart works for the hard work,
beating constantly as targets are acquired.
Shots fired, money wired and payments aplenty.
Contacts signed, terms and conditions defined,
it could take time, but the ***** rolling.
Touch base as we reach for the stars,
customers in charge, their business is ours.
We roll monthly, comfortably in our own domains,
renew them annually again as the pattern remains the same.
Some days, it's a struggle to get out of the pit,
feeling burnout, lack energy for my daily workout.
The wage ain't great but the dividends could add up to millions.
Some are cynical but I won't listen to those opinions.
I treat my staff as people not minions.
No need for incidents were a team of individuals.
Passionate and driven creatures,
hidden features and secret keepers.
Let's get money and lets get paid,
Theres a million ways we can earn more than the minimum wage.
Let's raise the bar, the city is ours and the worlds not too far away...
Dream tomorrow and live today.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC
We all bear scars in one way or other.
Some from loving someone too deeply and some others from losing someone or something that you cared too much for.
Some scars are intentional while some others exist for stupid silly reasons.
Some we are but some we are not so proud of.
I have scars all over my body.
All over my mind and all over my soul.
I have scars on my brain due to over thinking and over analyzing incidents that haven’t even happened yet.
I have scars on my eyes for shutting it more often, for being blind to things that should’ve been taken care of.
I have scars on my nose from all those endless snobs and sniffles from my horrifying past relationships.
I have scars on my mouth from speaking the truth, only the truth and nothing but the truth.
I have scars on my neck from getting choked up on false love and fake proposals.
I have scars on my shoulders from lifting up responsibilities that I was accustomed to from an early age.
I have scars on my hands from holding onto things that weren’t supposed to be mine from the very start.
I have scars on my chest from my ice cold heart that has been stomped over and over multiple times.
I have scars on my lungs from the “occasional” stress buster cigarettes that I am addicted to every now and then.
I have scars on my stomach from one too many butterflies that flew when we first met.
I have scars on my legs from running, miles away from people and that place I used to call home.
I have scars on my skin from the many tattoos I got done that helps me reassure my self-worth.
I have scars on my soul from trying hard to pull myself together, calm me down and compose myself through the rampant storm that’s been raging in my life.
I have all these scars. All of them.
And they don’t scare me now even though they hurt like hell, at times.
They’ve become a part of me and looking back, they are just reminders of who I was, what I have been through my life and the person it has made me become.
They don’t scare me anymore because they define who I am now.
A survivor.
Mar 10, 2018
Mar 10, 2018 at 2:04 AM UTC
By Arcassin Burnham
Mind half cocked,
Gas prices turn to money slots,
But the thing I don't tolerate is blacks getting shot,
Over nothing,
Act of ignorance,
Changing appearances,
The thing I don't tolerate is being judged by appearances,
About some minor incidents,
Situation and conscience,
But I don't tolerate people talking ********
Starting with you,
Destroy all your virtues,
I don't tolerate the ignoring of a certain love you thought was true,
I just don't tolerate it.
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 4:12 PM UTC
Sleepless eyes wide awake
During a sleepless night
Tossing and turning
The bed is so uninviting
Not allowing my soul to rest
Listening to the dark lull
Turmoil in the mind
In retrospective mode
So many incidents come alive
Darkness giving me clarity
Of my experiences
Trying to decipher the past
Imaginary solutions
For episodes from my past
Time travel, visiting in reminiscence
Not sure whether I am happy or sad
More of a neutral state of mind
Sleepless night engaging me
In a futile attempt to resolve
Only memories can visit the past
Time, has long ago taken me miles ahead
My sleepless night indulging
In hallucinating my mind
Ramblings of a sleepless soul
From the experiences of sleepless night
Jul 14, 2014
Jul 14, 2014 at 9:48 AM UTC
The left of center
are in north bound throes of a dupe
and can't begin to forecast this wonder of polluted marvel,
in the morrow
my optics discharged in a catastrophic traversal
While whimsy and accidental feels like I've taken pills
a power rain this sobbing has spilled
No longer to be contained based on sheer will
Attacked by neurotic transcending
While sifting through files and photo stacks
Came across multiples of your smiling face
From when I shot you, a couple hundred miles back
No one would dare debase the abundance of your emitted grace
Bloodshot mist eyed and blind from tears
control lost during transport steer
Drips off my cheek pouring down my chest
Could make great sense to don a life vest
Filling up floorboards like a spraying firehose
Shattering cascades diamondize the windows
A single glance at an image turns farmland into rural seaquake
If they interview my lifeless corpse what a headline this will make,
turning tragedy into a foolish mistake
people will curse and laugh
Paved over roads now films unseen
when dusk fuse night from the weep my eyes dispensed
Elements effected by incidents
Rising waves climb over to decimate interstate 65
All over a tiny tear drop and her sweet smiling photograph
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
*Main Talkhi-e-Hayat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya
Gham Ki Siyah Raat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya*
**With the worry from bitterness of life, I drank
With the grief of my darkest night, I drank**
*Itni Daqiq Shai Koi Kaise Samajh Sake
Yazdan Ke Vaqiat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya*
**Such delicate substance, how can one comprehend?
With the fear of merciful moment, I drank**
*Chhalke Hue The Jaam Pareshan Thi Zulf-e-Yaar
Kuchh Aise Hadsat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya*
**Overflowing cups and beloved’s anxious tresses
With the concern for such calamities, I drank**
*Main Aadmi Huun Koi Farishta Nahi Huzur
Main Aaj Apni Zaat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya*
**Human I am and no angel O’ respected
Today, with the vigilance of my own being, I drank**
*Duniya-e-Hadsat Hai Ik Dardnak Giit
Duniya-e-Hadsat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya*
**World of incidents is an agonising song
With the discomfort of this world of incidents, I drank**
*Kante To Khair Kante Hain Is Ka Gila Hi Kya
Phulon Ki Vardat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya*
**Thorns are yet thorns and there is no complaint
With the scare from crimes of flowers, I drank**
*Saghar Vo Kah Rahe The Ki Pi Lijiye Huzur
Un Ki Guzarishat Se Ghabra Ke Pi Gaya*
**Saghar they said drink O’ respected
And with the care for their wishes, I drank**
— Translated by Jamil Hussain, Poet Saghar Siddiqui, Sung by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 6:08 AM UTC
I’m a barbarian in a woman’s shape.
I stomp into discourse with heavy steps.
Driven by impulse, twisting like switchbacks.
There are so many narratives...
With one hand, I hold a megaphone to my mouth.
With the other hand, from my heart, from my head,
I pull out jagged digressions and awkward arguments.
If I could weave just one logical thread
to see a common perspective,
to stop interpreting…
I would stand tall
on the pedestal of thorny incidents,
inept appointments, yet proud
that I would finally catch myself.
I know, I can only dream of
patiently knitting rushing words together.
I can’t stitch these threads into
a colored, beautiful patchwork,
that could give some warmth to the quandary,
or as a cover for chronic nostalgia.
Meanwhile,
within the conventions of social dreaming
I tilt my head from side to side
Asking myself with incredulity,
How is it possible that the voice
screaming inside me
sounds so weak and dull?
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 11:23 AM UTC
1248
The incidents of love
Are more than its Events—
Investment’s best Expositor
Is the minute Per Cents—
4.1k
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
A day which changed map projection,
Which apart the hearts,
Extirpate many dreams,
Floating bodies in the river,
Conjoin pain and frighten memories,
Memories which we would recall on 16th December,
When we were recalling the memories of severance with Dhaka,
Woe was in the breeze,
But an enemy afar from all emotions,
Bloodthirsty souls; Extirpate many dreams,
Dreams of to become a pilot, doctor and a responsible citizen,
One day, two incidents, one enemy; we’ll never forget,
We’ll never forget,
One enemy but two faces,
First Dhaka than Peshawar,
But they did not knew,
Events of dolorous conjoined the nations!
By: Nida Mahmoed
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Holocaust Poem: "On The Slaughter"
by Chaim Nachman Bialik
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Merciful heavens, have pity on me!
If there is a God approachable by men
as yet I have not found him—
Pray for me!
For my heart is dead,
prayers languish upon my tongue;
my right hand has lost its strength
and my hope has wilted, undone.
How long? Oh, when will this nightmare end?
How long? Hangman, traitor,
here’s my neck—
rise up now, rise and slaughter!
Behead me like a dog—your arm controls the axe
and the whole world is a scaffold to me
although we—the chosen few—
were once recipients of the Pacts.
Executioner, my blood’s a paltry prize—
strike my skull and the blood of innocents will rain
drenching your pristine uniform again and again,
staining your raiment forever.
If there is Justice—quick, let her appear!
But after I’ve been blotted out, should she reveal her face,
let her false scales be overturned forever
and the heavens reek with the stench of her disgrace.
You too arrogant men, with your brutal injustice,
suckled on blood, unweaned of violence:
cursed be the warrior who cries "Vengeance!" on a maiden;
such cruelty was never contemplated, even by Satan.
Let innocents’ blood drench the abyss!
Let innocents’ blood seep down into the congealing darkness,
eat it away and undermine
earth's rotting foundations.
Al Hashechita ("On the Slaughter") was written by Chaim Nachman Bialik in response to the ****** Kishniev pogrom of 1903, which was instigated by agents of the Czar who wanted to divert social unrest and political anger from the Czar to the Jewish minority. The Hebrew word schechita (also transliterated shechita, shechitah, shekhitah, shehita) denotes the ritual kosher slaughtering of animals for food. The juxtapositioning of kosher slaughter with the slaughter of Jews makes the poem all the more powerful and ghastly. Such anti-Semitic incidents prompted a massive wave of Eastern European emigration that brought millions of Jews to the West. Unfortunately, there have been many similar slaughters in human history and the poem remains chillingly relevant to the more recent ones in Israel/Palestine, Rwanda, Bosnia and Kosovo. Keywords/Tags: Holocaust, poem, Bialik, translation, slaughter, massacre, God, prayer, executioner, hangman, blood, innocents, justice, false, scales, injustice
Mar 12, 2020
Mar 12, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC
That familiar sound of a helicopter approaching
out of nowhere its search light focused.
Down onto a desolute and lonely moorland
quickly joined by a second one.
But what is the true intention of their task
as a figure looks up wearing a mask.
No ordinary being sitting there in isolation
as soldiers approach with guns.
Nearby a circular craft of unknown origin
lays damaged amongst the grass.
Away from the view of a watching public
the covert operation is slick.
Taken alive the alien is roughly removed
put into a third chopper nearby.
Two other bodies are bagged and tagged
the sight is cleared of any evidence.
Reports of an object seen falling denied
once again the military have lied.
How many incidents have really occured
the public know nothing about?
The real truth of an extra terrestial existence
rather than endless misinformation.
Was Roswell fact or fiction what is area fifty one
when will the real truth be done?
The Foureyed Poet. The Foureyed Poet
Feb 25, 2011
Feb 25, 2011 at 3:46 PM UTC
****** thought it was a concept novel.
But wrong he was.
India knew Blitzkrieg long before ******
In ancient dramas like Mahabharata,
And of course the older Ramayana,
The epics are replete with incidents,
Or rather determining acts of battle,
That determined the course of time,
Armies attacked the relaxing armies,
Changed the outcome of war.
So was the ancient Indian ideology.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
the baby is white guilt. is walking early.
is outside picking stones to give to loved ones.
Jesus is a moment of peace
on a skateboard.
the fish are five thousand
isolated incidents.
vandalism is vandalism.
the numb hands of a child
go rolling after
crayons.
this is you, beside a flower, in front of a mountain.
your eyes are so big
and the bread
so quiet.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 7:24 PM UTC
The sun warms my salty skin
and my pores open to let your love in.
I feel as beautiful as the ocean,
I am my greatest muse.
Today was a good day darling, see,
I have captured every second of my daydreaming,
pinned those very pictures to my wall.
And you wonder why I never get out of bed, though I keep talking about the colour palette of my romantic days.
Your wind has not shifted - but my winter has come. You can’t hear the children in me cry.
Suffocating happens through minor incidents like your softly spoken words searching for an affectionate listener.
I cannot breathe, my god, don‘t you understand?
Winter has come, and I am trapped in a fourteen-year-old‘s body trying to figure out where she went wrong.
It has been cold for a decade and the sun still burns holes in my chest.
I do not need you to understand, for you are my sun, my light, my temple. I need you to see the shadows in which I wander, the orphans I have left behind -
My skin has weathered, and I cannot find the right sunscreen to care for it.
Jul 31, 2023
Jul 31, 2023 at 6:47 PM UTC
I know what it must be like
to deal with me;
but I assure you
it's not as hard
as dealing with being me.
I simultaneously push people away,
keep them at a distance with falsities
designed to prevent incidents
like people actually getting to know the real me
and wish they knew enough to understand
why
why it is that I grew to become this.
Jul 21, 2016
Jul 21, 2016 at 11:09 AM UTC
I am not the princess-type girl who can eat with you in a formal restaurant.
I am no one but a simple girl, to some things I am ignorant.
I am not someone you can bring to formal events.
I might just ***** things up and cause some series of unfortunate incidents.
I don't know if im good enough.
They might disagree and for us they might make it tough.
They might not accept me the way my family accepted you.
They might not like me the same way you do.
I don't know what to say.
I don't know if there's an easy way.
I don't know what to think.
With embarrassment, I might shrink.
I feel dissatisfied and wanted to try harder.
So that, in the eyes of your loved ones, I am better.
I feel nervous and my self esteem is low.
I shouldn't feel this way, I know.
But I can't help it.
I don't want to just relax and sit.
I don't want to lose you.
I love you so much but I don't know what to do.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 2:36 AM UTC
*In this country I fear for my life
Violence today is far from your everyday fight
This just doesn't feel right
To sit here and not write
What has happened to my little Bahama land ?
Today people rob and **** for fun
Toddlers aren't afraid to wave a gun
Im sick to my stomach as I look in disbelief
Could being killed be my new destiny
What has happened to my little Bahama land ?
Innocent people caught in crossfire
All from stupid incidents that had been transpired
130 murders! Rings in my ears
Young children around me shedding tears
What has happened to my little Bahama land ?
Sun , sand and sea?
Means nothing
if innocently killed mothers cant enjoy it with me
I am the youth and I will be the change
I'll do it hand by hand
I beg plead and ask
What has happened to my little ol Bahama land ?
~ Rae Lauren*
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 4:06 PM UTC
'Dockery was junior to you,
Wasn't he?' said the Dean. 'His son's here now.'
Death-suited, visitant, I nod. 'And do
You keep in touch with-' Or remember how
Black-gowned, unbreakfasted, and still half-tight
We used to stand before that desk, to give
'Our version' of 'these incidents last night'?
I try the door of where I used to live:
Locked. The lawn spreads dazzlingly wide.
A known bell chimes. I catch my train, ignored.
Canal and clouds and colleges subside
Slowly from view. But Dockery, good Lord,
Anyone up today must have been born
In '43, when I was twenty-one.
If he was younger, did he get this son
At nineteen, twenty? Was he that withdrawn
High-collared public-schoolboy, sharing rooms
With Cartwright who was killed? Well, it just shows
How much . . . How little . . . Yawning, I suppose
I fell asleep, waking at the fumes
And furnace-glares of Sheffield, where I changed,
And ate an awful pie, and walked along
The platform to its end to see the ranged
Joining and parting lines reflect a strong
Unhindered moon. To have no son, no wife,
No house or land still seemed quite natural.
Only a numbness registered the shock
Of finding out how much had gone of life,
How widely from the others. Dockery, now:
Only nineteen, he must have taken stock
Of what he wanted, and been capable
Of . . . No, that's not the difference: rather, how
Convinced he was he should be added to!
Why did he think adding meant increase?
To me it was dilution. Where do these
Innate assumptions come from? Not from what
We think truest, or most want to do:
Those warp tight-shut, like doors. They're more a style
Our lives bring with them: habit for a while,
Suddenly they harden into all we've got
And how we got it; looked back on, they rear
Like sand-clouds, thick and close, embodying
For Dockery a son, for me nothing,
Nothing with all a son's harsh patronage.
Life is first boredom, then fear.
Whether or not we use it, it goes,
And leaves what something hidden from us chose,
And age, and then the only end of age.
2.5k
Muslims are not to date.
But you've seen him kissing Kate.
Zayd, Khalid, Luqman don't care that ALLAH tells us to wait.
They flash their sinful pictures straight.
Without shame, a number of my brothers show children watching how to fake mate.
Selfish, self-centered, I do what I want to do is happening at a fast rate.
Most of them who date know ALLAH regards their actions with hate.
Persistence to do wrong, to fake date Kate, prevents them from moving in a direction that is straight.
Maybe their children, ones they were never told about would have entered the world as ******** late.
Maybe their done away with babies would have exited the world as ALLAH'S slaves who used Islamic knowledge as bait.
Before marriage it is said, I love you, You're hot; Kate steals these phrases from the role of a wife and uses them to increase her heart rate.
They share a bed and have *** but what they want not to know is that they fornicate.
A load of grave sins they accrue and a heavy punishment from ALLAH if they do not feel guilty, if they do not repent, if they do not end what they perpetuate.
Many practicing Muslim maids want not to marry them. Little do those who fake date Kate know that their actions likely got in the way of GOD'S good fate.
That their use and abuse of ALLAH'S fashioned female and a Father's beloved daughter, violates her like how a dog with his razor-sharp teeth on her arm viciously ate.
He and Kate with memories to relive the sores and bruises, the trauma and incidents of disobedience which cut off grace from ALLAH, The Great.
You're going to make wait late.
You're going to fake date Kate.
Feb 12, 2019
Feb 12, 2019 at 5:35 PM UTC
If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the jagged edges of a
smashed beer bottle - belligerent,
defensive, and prone to fighting
because of the cheap drink flooding his veins in hopes of forgetting every and anything come the next morning.
If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the crack in his last bowl
as it gets bigger unable to contain
himself or his problems -
unable to keep everything in one place, as it spills and pours into other areas of his life.
If broken men were like broken glass
then he'd be the various mirrors
around his house that he punched in,
7 years of bad luck for each -
the reflection taunting and crooked everytime he so much as glances at one out of habit.
If broken men were like broken glass,
then he'd be a light bulb that burst
from its own luminescence - that
was too much to hold in its surroundings
that's deemed useless since it can't perform its primary function.
If broken men were like broken glass,
then he'd be the splintered fragments of photo frames - the shards embedding
into the pads of his fingertips
as he tries in vain to piece it back together again, to make it whole again, to make it picture perfect again.
If broken men were like broken glass,
then how does one handle a heart?
Is this why so many are callous to
the destruction they cause?
Indifferent to the wreckage that follows them wherever they go?
Or are they afraid of themselves,
afraid of being naturally sensitive and
vulnerable, afraid of reincarnating into
the pieces of glass that they break?
Maybe it is both or neither, even, but
the destructive behavior of men are not
isolated incidents ...
It is phenomena that spans across the globe.
If the concept of Man exists outside of this world,
would they exhibit the same fragility too?
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 7:42 PM UTC
To walk a thousand miles
To take a thousand steps
First you have to be born and take your first breathe
No praise just don't scream
Directly at me at a thousand different octaves
Please see the id that requires asprin to aspire a better passion
To alleviate the headache
To know true love
Is to experience 1000 heartbeats
In 1000 situations
All at once
Few can only hope to feel that
What can feel right
And what can't be struck 1000 times
Three times the life with 333 in mind
Minus the 6 that didn't count
Plus the 12 that really mattered
And take off the 5 that will be forgotten
Maybe the rich one
Or one of the slums bums
Can question this one time
Of an aspiring poet
To write 1000 lines
But still they mean nothing
Nonetheless something
Will still push
5 by 20 incidents in a infants eyes
That will eventually happen 10 more times
And If you accept the challenge
You have a 1000 tries to win
This is the last for the time being
1000 and done
To the last poem
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC