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Azhar Sabri Dec 2014
Ek koh e gham liye betha hoon
Log kahte hain piye betha hoon
Koo e Jana me hui he jab se shikast
Tab se hothon ko siye betha hoon
aster gayavi urdu shayari
CRAZY DAISY Oct 2016
I watch lazily from my hammock
as the fiery red orange sun
sinks into the horizon
and night falls down upon my head
as the warm breeze caresses my skin
the hibiscus are swaying
dancing to the tune of the earth
the smell of Tom Yum Goong
(spicy shrimp soup)
fills my nose
my belly rumbles uncontrollably
distant music and little voices
sipping on Nam Dang-Mu Pan
(melon ice drink)



S̄ìng thī̀ dī thī̀s̄ud thī̀ c̄hạn khey thả k̆ khụ̄x kār ŷāy pị yạng pratheṣ̄ thī̀ yxd yeī̀ym nī̂ h̄nụ̀ng thī̀ p̄hm thor h̄ā thī̀ b̂ān

translation: The best thing I ever did was move to this wonderful country, the one I call home
Fat round raindrops fall
And flood the fetid street,
A warm, wet treat
For an island owned by heat.
A slippery deluge, a storm,
Lamai welcomes the warm
Caress of wet hot rain
And I am birthed into this land,
Into sun, colour, and sand.
Waters break,
A lake, deluging me
Willingly, I bathe
In amniotic rain
Reborn, in heat, and hope, and pain.
Deepak shodhan Jun 2015
Girl, are you belong to
De Beers Premier Mine
Come to me, I preserve you
and make you mine
My love is like
Champagne diamond
I've somany colors to put
all your worries behind
Let me be a Wittelsbach
in your crown
So that I can smooch your forhead
Let me be a White diamond
in your ring
So that I can kiss your fingers
I'm sure, being with is like staying
in a Cubic zirconia
My love is more denser;
I will never let you hurt
Girl, you are a Koh-I-Noor;
everyone fights for your beauty
and value..
But I'm Robin hood;
I always fight for your good!

----de3pak
Richard Riddle Jun 2015
'Twas a balmy summer evening, and a goodly crowd was there.
Which well-nigh filled Joe's bar-room on the corner of the square;
And as songs and witty stories came through the open door,
A vagabond crept slowly in and posed upon the floor.

"Where did it come from?" someone said, "The wind has blown it in."
"What does it want?" another cried. "Some whisky, *** or gin?"
"Here, Toby, sic him, if your stomach's equal to the work -
I wouldn't touch him with a fork, he's as filthy as a Turk."

This badinage the poor wretch took with stoical good grace;
In fact, he smiled as though he thought he'd struck the proper place.
"Come, boys, I know there's burly hearts among so good a crowd
To be in such good company would make a deacon proud."

"Give me a drink -- that's what I want -- I'm out of funds, you know;
When I had cash to treat the gang, this hand was never slow.
What? You laugh as though you thought this pocket never held a sou!
I once was fixed as well, my boys, as anyone of you."

"There, thanks; that's braced me nicely! God bless you one and all!
Next time I pass this good saloon, I'll make another call.
Give you a song? No, I can't do that, my singing days are past;
My voice is cracked, my throat's worn out, and my lungs are going fast."

"Say! Give me another whisky, and I'll tell you what I'll do
I'll tell you a funny story, and a fact, I promise, too.
That I was ever a decent man not one of you would think;
But I was, some four or five years back. Say, give me another drink."

"Fill her up, Joe, I want to put some life into my frame --
Such little drinks to a *** like me are miserably tame;
Five fingers -- there, that's the scheme - and corking whisky, too.
Well, here's luck, boys! and, landlord, my best regards to you!"

"You've treated me pretty kindly, and I'd like to tell you how
I came to be the ***** sot you see before you now.
As I told you, once I was a man, with muscle, frame and health,
And, but for a blunder, ought to have made considerable wealth."

"I was a painter -- not one that daubed on bricks and wood
But an artist, and, for my age, was rated pretty good.
I worked hard at my canvas and was bidding fair to rise,
For gradually I saw the star of fame before my eyes."

"I made a picture, perhaps you've seen, 'tis called the 'Chase of Fame.'
It brought me fifteen hundred pounds and added to my name.
And then I met a woman -- now comes the funny part --
With eyes that petrified my brain, and sunk into my heart."

"Why don't you laugh? 'Tis funny that the vagabond you see
Could ever love a woman and expect her love for me;
But 'twas so, and for a month or two her smiles were freely given,
And when her loving lips touched mine it carried me to heaven."

"Did you ever see a woman for whom your soul you'd give,
With a form like the Milo Venus, too beautiful to live;
With eyes that would beat the Koh-i-noor, and a wealth of chestnut hair?
If so, 'twas she, for there never was another half so fair."

"I was working on a portrait, one afternoon in May,
Of a fair-haired boy, a friend of mine, who lived across the way,
And Madeleine admired it, and, much to my surprise,
Said that she'd like to know the man that had such dreamy eyes."

"It didn't take long to know him, and before the month had flown
My friend had stolen my darling, and I was left alone;
And, ere a year of misery had passed above my head,
The jewel I had treasured so had tarnished, and was dead."

"That's why I took to drink, boys. Why, I never saw you smile!
I thought you'd be amused, and laughing all the while.
Why, what's the matter, friend? There's a teardrop in your eye,
Come, laugh, like me; 'tis only babies and women that should cry."

"Say, boys, if you give me just another whisky, I'll be glad,
And I'll draw right here a picture of the face that drove me mad.
Give me that piece of chalk with which you mark the baseball score --
You shall see the lovely Madeleine upon the bar-room floor."

Another drink, and with chalk in hand the vagabond began
To sketch a face that well might buy the soul of any man.
Then, as he placed another lock upon the shapely head,
With a fearful shriek, he leaped and fell across the picture -- dead.
I was going to wait a couple of days, but, what the heck!
Bryce Jan 2020
The lime,
Shored up, spine cracked
And open paged
Is ridden with vine,
Life
Rife with tree and green
A hidden lung
To which you inspired,
This rich tapestry of coral
From old looms of woven Word.

As time washes them to the sea
And their beached bones populate the beaches
I rest my feet on the shores of shores
The neap of these spires
The catch of your breath

And am left without any.

One of the minnows
Cast in the light
As blades of chaff in a summer plain
Flares, as a star in the dappled light
To become the murk of dancing sea.


As babel casts distance between our words
Flowers and plants we drink and burn
Our church is upon the water,
Where God writes his testament in the rock
And shows us Our image
Reflected on the sea

Where I come to understand
Command
The path of all beneath
The current made
With every stroke
Guided and goaded
With rice and stick
With love and fear
I knew Him in me.

The deep holds Your waning disk
Twilight dyes the waters
I saw the wonder placed in us
Traced upon the fleeing skies

I have no words for your kindness
I found etched between the ancient grains
Only that I wish I could see them better
Written for more familiar shores.

As darkness blots the sky with ink
And the ocean fades into crashing waves
I am left with but the faintest warmth of day
Whispered 'long the breeze.
Jack Thompson Jan 2017
You're the beauty I left in patong.
Rainy days in Koh Samui.
Now knowing leaving was wrong.

I miss the feeling that laying on top of me wasn't close enough for you.  
Seeing such a genuine need to not feel alone.
Like we're perfectly at home.

Gentle kisses on you're head
Cuddled up tight in bed.

You tell me over and over how you'd rather be alone.
That caring heart that asks me if I'm okay everytime I roll over.
Tells me something different.

You're the girl that may have always gotten away.
I've never known exactly what to think.
What's in your heart you never say.

If I had more time here something nice we'd make.
As the end draws near
It's a shame we're only half baked.
© All Rights Reserved Jack Thompson 2017
Mon Papy.
Mon Papy n'a jamais eu de poème,
Afin de lui faire comprendre à quel point je l'aime.
J'ai donc le devoir de rectifier cette erreur,
Qui, depuis quelques temps, ronge mon coeur.
Depuis que je suis petite, tu m'as fait découvrir la belle vie,
Apprendre à faire du vélo sur deux roues en fait partie.
Tu m'as montré comment jouer aux boules,
Et comment orienter mon cerf-volant pour qu'il s'envole plus haut.
Tu m'as fais goûter le meilleur miel du monde,
Celui que tu allais chercher dans ta combinaison de super-héro.
Moi je pensais que tu étais James Bond,
Tu me disais, "ca roule, ma poule",
Comme si tu n'avais peur de rien,
Même pas des oies qui nous courraient après dans le jardin.
Avec toi je joue au scrabble et aux petits chevaux,
Tu gagnes toujours haut la main, et on ne peut s'empêcher de crier "Bravo!"
Je me souviens de nos soirées Fort Boyard et Koh-Lanta,
Rien de mieux qu'un bon feu, une famille réunie, et du chocolat.
T'avoir dans ma vie est un cadeau de chaque seconde,
Parfois j'aimerai le crier sur le toit du monde,
Pour qu'ils sachent tous la chance que j'ai,
D'avoir un papy comme toi, que je suis si fière d'aimer.
Même **** de toi je te sens près de moi,
Tu réchauffes mon cœur avec des sourires.
Tu sais bien qu'avec toi je ne peux que rire.
Tu m'aides à donner le meilleur de moi-même,
Tu sais bien que ta fierté fait la mienne.
Dans ma tête tes chansons résonnent avec clarté,
De la souris verte à la claire fontaine,
Ta voix berce mes souvenirs chaque jour,
Et mon angoisse disparaît dès que j'en entends les contours.
Mon sourire apparaît dès que je pense à toi,
Et mon cœur se remplit automatiquement de joie.
eileen Aug 2018
I'd help you
You're not my friend

I'm known as no face
I have no name

I was almost called the wind
You never see me
Only hear or feel me

I'd love to get to know you
my brain makes up excuses
on why not to

You look so pretty
but I never have the guts
to compliment you

Now I'll be known for being shy
Ask me whatever you want
and I'll reply

I once had a face
They took it away

I'm starting to forget
Who I really am
The Jashan at the foot steps of Demavand Koh

Thank You O kind Ahura, for this special moment that You send;

Ecstacy sheer it was, to this very special Jashan attend.

Felt Your presence, as if You were just round the bend.

Thank you sincerely for this wonderful opportunity that You, us sent.

Armin Dutia Motashaw
Dante Rocío Aug 2020
I was born robbed of my maternal language,
That crucial bundle of Heart’s pillars
and ribs.

The one that makes you forget
What even words or images are
worth for,
The one that shaped what sense I hold,
And the one who built me
from mere ashes
When I couldn’t even have my eyes
for God, before the first of times.

I’ve searched through more than a dozen
of them so far,
those which humans throw and throw,
force, upon me,
and each time one comes
when the victory seems at last
only for me to find
I have nothing else in my hand
than the smell of footsteps long gone
in the sand and dirt.
Though a half of my plucked out
ribs remain,
which is Poetry that ever wants me,
tongue carries,
that which cannot be
undermined nor explained,
I limp, maimed, without my own tongue
to claim.

And from that search my love though
for the language made its birth.
Possibly the yearning turned into arousal
of wonder catching, affection lapping.

I went back to the Language,
a veritable person I make of it,
I gave it the right of a name,
characteristics
And I am all those questions
directed towards it.

By the script of E.J. Koh’s letters of mother,

How to express in Korean, English,
or any other language
how we miss one dearly
or how the distance shapes itself?

How does language create us
and makes us become
what we are truly deep inside?

How does it decompose us
at our lowest and the highest,
of the state and one’s expressing?

Especially when the Word, at times,
though so futile unreliable,
is the only thing we have left,
like Dreams?

And if you ask me now,
with so much tongue inheritance
already making my stance in “To Be”,
which mortal speech the most beautiful is?
You can’t. for how can I choose?
French, the violet whisper?
Spanish, flaming blades in Llorona’s tears?
English, a parting ship in eloquent observance?
Italian, a cigarette night in a local conversation in lush green?
I cannot. For, what choice?
You could also ask me which of the stars
I love the most: I can’t say.
Each is so similar to other yet not,
though the brightest might not
be the dearest,
the middle one might not be the further one and the intimate arousal for all
that abstract and ungraspable
makes your feelings so confused
and beautifully mad
as if you had polyamory
with many persons at once,
couldn’t get rid of any of them,
choose only one,
yet each one of them has something
the other does not.

Every exchange of a language in mind
is that of our person,
even more of Poetry
I derive myself from in feelings & images,
an exchange of puzzles, schemes,
as if going through a ballroom
full of diversely dancing people
and once you have to step through them dancing waltz to pass
and then dancing tango.

The fall of the Babel was the moment
when that maternality of Speech
shattered into alien yet same
breaths, sacrifices, work of hands
and transit,
and ended up so rich
yet so lacking in its “magna carta”

So, if it all ends always as the same,
If it always leaves heart ripped,
If I can have it all yet none I want,
If it’s the same mortal thing
in codes shrouded...

If in this realm, the story ends
and starts alas,
tell me:

What choice of speak
do you even think
I still have?
A great praise, ode, heart’s shredding
I give in an ode to the language.
As a glossophile, a true priest of the Language
I came to bear and die,
My revealance of the elation and painful trail
I endure each day, each learning
And each time Polish is forced
Upon my lips.
When a mother tongue is your
“stepmother” one
and you feel constant reject
any time using it.
This is another Intimacy
of mine I share.
AWAIS HABIB Sep 2019
Koh gaya tha dunya ki ronak-e-gulzaar mai mn
Tj sy seek k khud ko bhola raha *** mn

Ye alag bt hai k pas nahe *** tery
Tbi to khud ko tery pas bhula raha *** mn

Zamany ki sargoshio ka andaza hai mjy
Tbi to khud ko khud sy bacha raha *** mn

Yaad hai mj ko k mila ajnabi ki tarha
Pr tamasha-e-dill daik pa raha *** mn

Janta *** k milu ga ik din tj sy zrur
Kia karu baato sy apni gabra raha *** mn
My this poem, i especially dedicated to my friend across the border....
& i wish that May Allah make his life so happy.. انشاءاللہ
Lal Ratnakar May 2020
Why worry at all about
Mother Nature or Queen Mother
First to feed and walk you,
Foremost’ld be your own mother.

Shrouded behind many layers of mystery,
You may end up in knowing HER not,
With many guards to frown upon entry,
You may land up in meeting her not.

Ready to **** snake closing in,
Brave enough to shoo tigers away,
When I came to this bad world,
She continued to value that day.

First to teach you alphabets,
First to tell what religion’s all about,
Every guest’s treated as god,
That’s how she earned her clout.

Before I’ld mire myself in break-up,
She chose to bring home my wife,
Trained her to be my best-loyal ally,
Who stands by me during strife.

When I got a kid of my own,
She volunteered to take her to school,
Washing her or dressing her up,
Everywhere she enforced her old rule.
PREAMBLE OF POEM

Let us forget for a moment all the popular stories of Koh-I-Noor and concentrate only on preciousness it imparts to British Crown. Looking towards individual family scene, one would find only one persona serving as Koh-II-Noor: MOTHER.

As true maker of family, she readily agreed to hand over headship to husband she gets married to and silently went about collecting jewels in his crown. Indeed, when a women becomes wholesomely a mother, she serves NOT ONE BUT THREE generations in a family,

Finding it that way within my own family, I celebrate Mother Day on May 13 which is marriage day of my parents on account of which alone her three boys and two girls came into being. Call it MY MOTHER DAY.

Mother's Day in 2017 was sadly on Sunday, the 14th of May (14/5/2017) which is my birthday and I lost my mother last year in April 9.I never knew that recapitulating her teachings and thoughts about time with her would result in poems, that too in English …a language she hardly spoke but could make out what other guy is talking about, thanks to her old experience of English-speaking people at home.

She had a flair for life and she lived it fully till the age of 87… always insisting on moral order not far away from humanism and her own religion. To my humble mind, parents are the best version of gods and goddesses because they are hallucination-free. But, are’nt we busy elsewhere and forget them easily.
Lal Ratnakar May 2020
Why worry at all about
Mother Nature or Queen Mother
First to feed and walk you,
Foremost’ld be your own mother.

Shrouded behind many layers of mystery,
You may end up in knowing HER not,
With many guards to frown upon entry,
You may land up in meeting her not.

Ready to **** snake closing in,
Brave enough to shoo tigers away,
When I came to this bad world,
She continued to value that day.

First to teach you alphabets,
First to tell what religion’s all about,
Every guest’s treated as god,
That’s how she earned her clout.

Before I’ld mire myself in break-up,
She chose to bring home my wife,
Trained her to be my best-loyal ally,
Who stands by me during strife.

When I got a kid of my own,
She volunteered to take her to school,
Washing her or dressing her up,
Everywhere she enforced her old rule.
PREAMBLE OF POEM

Let us forget for a moment all the popular stories of Koh-I-Noor and concentrate only on preciousness it imparts to British Crown. Looking towards individual family scene, one would find only one persona serving as Koh-II-Noor: MOTHER.

As true maker of family, she readily agreed to hand over headship to husband she gets married to and silently went about collecting jewels in his crown. Indeed, when a women becomes wholesomely a mother, she serves NOT ONE BUT THREE generations in a family,

Finding it that way within my own family, I celebrate Mother Day on May 13 which is marriage day of my parents on account of which alone her three boys and two girls came into being. Call it MY MOTHER DAY.

Mother's Day in 2017 was sadly on Sunday, the 14th of May (14/5/2017) which is my birthday and I lost my mother last year in April 9.I never knew that recapitulating her teachings and thoughts about time with her would result in poems, that too in English …a language she hardly spoke but could make out what other guy is talking about, thanks to her old experience of English-speaking people at home.

She had a flair for life and she lived it fully till the age of 87… always insisting on moral order not far away from humanism and her own religion. To my humble mind, parents are the best version of gods and goddesses because they are hallucination-free. But, are’nt we busy elsewhere and forget them easily.
John Vass Jan 2020
Ocean edge, how your moods do change.

Yesterday your tiny blue wavelets winked back at the early morning sun
And as they ran playfully up the beach I felt refreshed by your soft body enfolding mine.

Today though your long wrinkles of greeny blue make a sulky sound.
A humph followed by a drawn out hissy sigh as you slowly travel up the beach flecked with spittle foam.

I lie here enervated by the overcast hot humid day and feel mildly irritated by this mood I hear.
But I really do not care a jot if you are going to be like that.
So there.

Koh Phayam. Thailand.  Dec. 2011
John Vass Jan 2020
I took you snorkelling as I usually do.

I looked at you to reassure myself.

You winked back in your familiar way.

Later I looked again and you were gone!

You my long-time companion had disappeared!

You left me to plunge to the ocean floor.

I have searched for you along the arcing shore.

But I know you are forever lost to me beneath the rhythmic shifting sands.

Still winking and counting time as you always have.

Farewell my trusty Casio.


Koh Phayam. Thailand.   Dec. 2011

— The End —