"khe" poems
** ti hai Suru
Jb Mohababt k lamhe,
Shuruaat Khushiyo se
Gam Sare Lmahe.
Bina Kuch Shune Bina kuch Khe,
Hoti Hai Anokhi Mhababt k Lamhe.
Magar Mai Sa Janu,
Na Phchan Pau,
Kaisi Hai Mohababt Yhe Koi Btade.
Punchhu Mai Us Se
Yhe mohabat tu batade ,
Dard Hai Jaiyada Tujhme,
Kyu Tu Na Is Ko Mitade.
Hai Viswas Mujhko ,
Tu Kr Dega Dur Isko.
Hoti Hai Dukh Bddi Is DILL Me
Agar DILL Tutte KIshika BHari Mhafil Me.
Sambhalana Hai Mushkill,
Btau mai Kaise ,
Ye Dard Ki Khahani ,
Shunau Mai Kaise.
Bina Kuch Khe Bina Kuch Sune ,
Hoti Hai Anokhi Mohabat Ke lamhe .
Manau Mai DILL Ko ,
Bhulau Us Pal Ko ,
Jo Biti Hai Kal Ko ,
Hamari Wo lamhe.
Hai Mushkil Bddi
Ye Dard Chupana ,
Bithen Huye Kal Ke ,
Yadash Mitana.
Magar Mai Na Jan
Na Pachan Pau.
Kaishi Hai Mohabat
Yhe Koi Btade.
Bhot Log Krte Hai ,
Is Pe Bharoshe,
magar Sab Ko Milte Hai
Isme Ye Dhokhe.
Jo Kha Lete Dhokhe ,
Wo Firte Hai Rothe.
Magar Mai Na Janu
Na Pachanan Pau
Kaishi Hai Mohabat Ye koi Btade.
ROHINI RAJ
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 5:41 AM UTC
Ek rukha aasman ...ek pyasi jameen...esi hi kuch hamarI khaani.. Dooor h bhut..par nazro me basein.. Rutha ** ek to duja kaise hasse..!! Aankhe ** jab uski nam.. To bheege hum b hurdum.. Kosis bht ki nzre churane ki..par hum toh the Unke dil me phasse..!! Aankho se hi wo izhaar kr gye ..or hum sochte rhe ...unse khe kaise... !! Alag hme b kuch krna..tha...to kuch esa kia.. Maanga jo usne hath toh hmne <3 dil hi de dia !! Waqt b kitna bewafa h bin bole hi nikal.gya... Or wo ret ki trh meri muthhi se fisal gya..!! Wo sapna tha ya hqiqat BS m sochti rhti hu.. Uss hwa ka jhoka h wo..jiske sang m aaj b bahti hu !!!!
Oct 30, 2015
Oct 30, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
For every aging boomer
there are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.
Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.
Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent
From the walls of Hue to Can Ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.
The lucky ones who did come home
recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
For every aging boomer
There are one or two they've known:
Heroes of the battlefield
Who never made it home.
Some classmate who was butchered
in a fire fight in “Nam.
A sibling who had perished
in the standoff at Khe Sanh.
Perhaps the Tet offensive
left some friend's blood spilled and spent.
Politicians speak of glory-
It’s the grunts who pay the rent
From the walls of Hue to Cam ranh Bay
from Tonkin to Saigon.
there is a wall in Washington
with their names inscribed thereon.
The lucky ones who did come home
Recall the name and face
of some heroic eighteen year old
who perished in their place.
May 23, 2013
May 23, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
Meri hasti kuch yu bikhar gayi....
Maano Mere pahuchne se phele kashti guzar gayi....
Me dekhta raha Jaise koi dur ** raha Hai mujh se....
Laga Maano kuch Palo me jindgi badal gayi....
Dil kheta raha k rok lu use dekar awaz....
Par na jaane kyu chup rahe mere alfaaz....
Ajeeb laga soch kar kay wo chala gya mujhe bhul Kar....
Khushiya le gaya meri, gam jholi me dalkar....
Shayad wo pahuch gya ** manzil par apni....
Khe kr mitti shareer Mera khud paani me utar gaya....
Karte rahe jindgi bhar dua jiske liye....
Wo kahi apni manzil talash raha hoga or me rait me nishaan uske....
By: Himanshu rajput
Jul 14, 2017
Jul 14, 2017 at 5:57 AM UTC
in the sky, I don’t see him, the Big Guy,
the “G” man, but I found someone who did,
posing the query, “What is God?”
he answered his own question
with twenty words, plus one--no mention of the sun,
the stars, or how HE ignited the Big Bang
but many
wispy words about love, glory
justice and joy
I can't claim to comprehend you,
wedded to agnosticism I seem to be
though I truly would like to see:
something behind the
sunken eyes, bloated bellies of babies
covered with impatient flies
something in the blood trails
of San Bernardino, Paris, Beirut
Khe Sanh, Iwo Jima, the Marne
Antietam, ad infinitum
who can read those red riddles
and help me understand--maybe more
than 21 words are required
though I am hardly inspired
when the words to describe HIM/HER/IT
don’t mention milk except as human kindness
or do nothing to explain our blissful blindness
to blood dripping from stakes driven
so long after Calvary’s crosses
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 8:44 PM UTC
We were cleaning out the attic
For the estate sale when we found
My fathers’ letters to my mother
from Vietnam, near Khe Sanh.
The pages old and yellowed,
The ink, in places, faded.
written in a boyish script,
with dried tear stains on the pages.
These were written from a battle
in a long and costly war.
They hold a tale of love and longing
For his wife and the child she bore.
My father was a Seabee
On the airstrip at Khe Sanh
By the time the siege was lifted
He was already gone.
The letters end abruptly.
He never made it home.
My mother set aside the letters
and lived the rest of life alone.
I never knew my Father
He never held his child
Still he found a way to touch me
with his letters from Khe Sanh.
Jan 12, 2012
Jan 12, 2012 at 7:27 AM UTC
He tried not to cry. With his trenching tool,
which weighed five pounds, he began
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.
The intransitive Martha. Over Her letters he'd drool,
and over the burning fire he'd place the pea-can.
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.
Bible in his knapsack, towards Than Khe the cruel
march agonized, where the burning cross would then stand
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.
He sat at the bottom of his foxhole and rubbed the wool
sweater brought by resupply choppers. The other shouted from their holes, "How'd Ted land?"
He tried not to cry with his trenching tool.
"I swear to God-boom-down. Not a word." The others fueled
the rage-rage against the dying of the light. Jim felt bad
digging a hole in the earth. He felt a fool.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
They buried him at Calverton,
the sky provided tears.
His mourners were the Few, the Proud.
No next of kin appeared.
For years he’d wandered City Streets,
a casualty of war.
The V.A. patched his injuries,
they couldn’t bandage what he saw.
The State had little use for him,
once the Peace accords were signed
His tiny pension was just enough
to purchase anodyne.
The blessings of a dreamless sleep,
He sometimes found in wine.
Otherwise he was on night patrol
With friends he’d left behind.
It’s hard to live civilian life,
His haunted mind was too far gone.
His body slept in Central Park
while his soul patrolled Khe San.
Then one night, more cold then most,
that solider finally yields.
She found him, dead, beneath the bridge
That he’d called “home” for years.
That kindly New York City Cop,
who knew he was a Vet,
arranged a simple funeral.
-That’s more than many get.
Present, aim, ready, fire!
They fire three quick rounds.
Accompanied by a tape of “Taps”
They commit him to the ground.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 9:59 PM UTC
av woond - vwash maya
neeth - kh ya dash - shhma kh
t yeh t yeh - mal koo tha kh-
neh kh wayt- zeve yan akh-
ay khannad - vwash maya -
aph var ha
hawv lan - lakh mad -
sun kh yanan - ya omana
vwash vo khlan - khau v yen -
wah kh tah kh yen -
ay khana - daph kh nan -
shh vwo kh yan - l
- kha av yen -
wela - tah lan - l nee s yuna
ela - patzan - min - bisha
metol - dila khe - mal khu tha -
wah hala - watesh vukh tah -
lah lam
al min
am yen
Nov 14, 2020
Nov 14, 2020 at 10:25 AM UTC
Bilee Ning Majangdu Phoorikho |
Buha Rong Buthuni Khim ||
Khim Khrip Khebo Khajasisi Klydu |
Bukhe Naihi Khripbo Gamanghi Thaoodu ||
Sir! Jumuthuni Khe Laisi Sibringma |
Gadain-Gadain Garao Khe Silingma ||
Jumuthuni Phoorikho, Bilee Ning Majangdu Khim Lai
Pede Khhele Ning Thanglama Phoorikho Khe Baalaohi ||
Dec 30, 2019
Dec 30, 2019 at 10:07 AM UTC
not supposed to be used as a napkin
to be coated with red blood ketchup
or yellow mustard custard from a dead
dog's bun
though it is, and while flown at half staff for a fallen hero, some cool cat on a Harley has it between his legs,
the stars and stripes a candy coating for his gas tank
but that guy will sure let you know
he's a prideful pissin' part of the Patriot Guard,
trailing behind a casket and grieving mama, defending them against all enemies, fantasized and domestic
so get your ***** up when a $uperstar
sings the hymn--an anthem for ****** youth,
or an inspiration for further folly,
whether it be Khe Sanh or Fallujah,
all who fall get a banner folded in precise proportion
kneeling is for "sons of *******
or maybe a medic under fierce fire trying to save a buddy,
who didn't make it through the "perilous fight," and gives less than a **** who sits or stands
as for me, I no longer salute--long ago excommunicated from that proud command
but I guess I'll place a hand on my heart, not sure if I do so to follow the code,
or check to see if it's still beating in the land of the free, the home of the brave
so keep those flags a comin' and keep the cannon fodder drummin'
those who stand tall tomorrow, will do little to assuage the sorrow,
of those who paid for the privilege to take a knee, or sing songs mindlessly with thee or me
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 11:04 PM UTC
They are forever here together, they shared a common fate.
Here are they, the first to fall, and those who perished late.
Some were slaughtered at Khe San, Others died at Hue.
All came home through Dover, buried in their native clay.
They are our older brothers who fought as brave Marines.
There are sons and fathers here and far too many teens.
Fifty Eight thousand names inscribed in ebony writ bold.
Time passes and the memories fade; their stories go untold.
I see my grey reflection as my fingers touch the wall
Across the years I think of one, so young, who gave his all.
May 25, 2017
May 25, 2017 at 9:43 PM UTC