"tricolor" poems
time and tide waits for none
nor does the soldier of the battle won
swift as the light that pass
the mist crept the landmass
thunder and lightning left out
when the major called out
ahoy! all brave men
the sons of the Ganges terrain
reach out to the far north
where the enemy slept forth
show no mercy for you'l receive none
feel no pain and march as one
here's the ensign to raise up aloft
think of the weary deeds that you've got
let the din of cannon shred
the rhythm to carry you in right tread
never panic when the men grew wear
wave the standard to shook the fear
never misjudge the foe as weak
but remember your oath to our peak
never fall when ponderous struck
never halt when stark strike
fight till your warmth is turned icy
then the hawkish eyes will see
the unbeaten soul stamped on Indian lads
the mortal's robes you 've clad
holds the blessings of thousand
which will retain your soul and
spirit even when the tricolor is laid
on the honored graves made
hold tightly like limpet
till success is met
march brave Indians with gusto
and show them you are a maestro
draw your sword across
to pierce the devil's heart across
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 4:08 AM UTC
Suspected of attack
On fascist Graziani
He was in house arrest
As the case was with
Suspects the rest.
A prisoner of war
Then via Somalia
He was sent to Rome
Found a black lion
If left at home.
Together with
A prison inmate
From Yugoslavia
Called Julio
He made a rope
Out of a blanket
The reason
To descend down
And escape
From a tower prison.
In a show of contempt
Defying officials' attempt
To smoke out a fugitive
On the hide
The two at eventide
Returned to open fire
And attack guards
To set free prisoners
Indeed, victory was
On their side.
Leading partisans
Abdissa made it his duty
To gruel fascists
With insurgent activity.
What was the outcome?
Parallel to the allied forces
When he entered Rome
With Ethiopia's tricolor
Around his wrist
He was accorded
A warm welcome.
Then he turned his face
To allied-forces'-
'For Berlin' race
In rooting out **** troops
He spurred the pace!
Asked to stay in Europe
He said shalom
"Home sweet home!
As written on the bible
Can an Ethiopian change
His skin
or a leopard its spots?
Doing so
Will it not be a sin?"
The unsung hero
Returned to Addis
Turning Fascist and Nazis'
Wild dreams to zero!
Sep 11, 2020
Sep 11, 2020 at 11:53 PM UTC
!!!
**Dreamt
a dream with childish eyes,
Burnt in the belly the flame of patriotic fire,
Decided to become a soldier and dedicate my love to my land.
The promise I made,
I cherished, I fulfilled.
Imparted soldiers duty filled with passion,
For my motherland,
My heart was filled with proud and patriotism,
Promise to die for my motherland held above all.
Today proudly,
I am enfolded in tricolor of my country..
For my last journey,
For my final abode.
Dream outlived me.
I will be born again to serve my motherland.
**
Sparkle In Wisdom
27 Feb 2019
Feb 27, 2019
Feb 27, 2019 at 3:48 AM UTC
Fanatics fixed their eyes upon
The screen to cheer their team
The mood there in the air was tense
Tricolor seemed out of steam
The clock was counting down
The time was drawing nigh
Doomed to lose and head on home
Bid Russia their goodbye
An errant shot deflected out
Gave them one last chance
To score a goal and prance about
Show off their famous dance
From the corner, the ball soared in
A hero rose above
Mina smacked it with his head
And won his country's love
England shocked to see the win
Snatched right from their grasp
Colombia delirious
Successful at last gasp
And thus the game was sent along
Into the overtime
Two periods were played to nil
Two teams full in their prime
Penalties would now decide
Which team would advance
The locals glued to their tvs
The nation in a trance
Falcao scores! Kane as well!
Cuadrado, Rashford too!
Muriel then strikes one home
Tricolor up three to two!
Ospina blocks the next one
Hypes up the frenzied crowd
But Uribe hits the crossbar
And the silence echoes loud
Trippier knots it up again
We're down to final shots
Bacca fails to get his through
Past Pickford's valiant swat
Fate rests upon this final kick
Well placed with perfect spin
Just past Ospina's outstreched hands
Dier seals the win
The cafeteros reel from shock
No sign of jubilation
But still the crowd, crushed in defeat
Show their appreciation
Colombia eliminated
We give them all a hand
And though their World Cup here is done
I'm now their biggest fan
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 2:58 AM UTC
No more vibrant bazaars with vegetables lined across carts
No more shouts of vendors piqued with anticipation for the day's sell
No more selling of fruits and poultry to the hordes of families lining near a mandi
I must be on the wrong street, my memory fails me.
No more spices being sold for a day of solace from the midnight cries of a mewling child?
No more rabble of vendors that belong on fields, away from home and from their wives?
Is this even Delhi?
Oh! Look a tricolor map on a desolate stretch of empty push-carts
Why does that torn flag that unites us all hang low in humility?
Where are all the people of the city?
Is that my India putting on a broken disguise?
The only thing holding me together is my dignity
Jan 26, 2021
Jan 26, 2021 at 12:43 PM UTC
there is no privacy anymore
tinker with your settings,
imaginary dragons, but to no true avail,
your scathing privacy has since sailed,
only to return for another sinking
what you forgot,
is very well remembered
in a some very overlooked place
see me in my summer camp class photo,
blonde crew cut and goofiest of grins,
find my poems of eons ago,
in living tricolor,
to my now better understood
"eternal" embarrassment,
they writ on, vainly looking
for a way to enjoy a
natural unnatural aging,
a wordlessly, self-destructing death
on a someday,
though the probability is that
someone's gigabytes
will cloud store them forevermore
because accumulation is
cheap and easy and
whatever
everything you need but didn't want,
the tangled webs, births and deaths,
multiple divorces and successes,
ancestors, progenitors,
children who no longer acknowledge
parenthood,
the detritus of lives writ even larger than the
original reality life show
confrontation tween my suppression
of long term memories that
are dangling participles,
going gone being been,
confusion resultant in
the tenses of existence,
I was therefore I still must be
but no longer
the me
I pretended to be
*there is no privacy anymore,
especially,
not even from thine own
prying eyes and faulty memories...*
when they ask what is my name,
to better trace my leavings,
I will
like Jehovah to Moses respond,
I Am that I Am
(אֶהְיֶה אֲשֶׁר אֶהְיֶה, ehyeh ašer ehyeh)
Jun 20, 2015
Jun 20, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
look at them
cattle being loaded in tricolor wagons
"Mind the closing doors"
the shepherd says
headless chickens trying to find a seat
bulls butting the walls
everyone is scared
they fear that the dog next to them
rips them inside out
so they just pretend it's fine
it's time to read the Evening Standard
let me show you my new iphone
I've been playing Candy Crush Saga
and I've become pretty good at it
you know?
The next station is Victoria
said Hall 9000
that's where I got off
and left the rest of my comrades
they are building a windmill in East London
and me?
I'm just a donkey
I don't really want to get involved
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 6:31 PM UTC
Oh Vova, My little Vova
Sitting on your throne of skulls
You survey your frozen kingdom
and as you always do
You grimace
With bitterness tempered by the ages
Born a citizen of a scarlet empire. now the tyrant of a tricolor nation
You are both the largest and the smallest man
Who does reside in this time-worn land
You rule your potemkin empire with a fist of iron, a gaze of lead and a voice of kolokol-1
Your inhumanity is well practiced
From your days in the KGB
Your “New Russia” is merely a kleptocratic mockery of it’s golden years
A cheap ersatz mimicry
of Russia’s grandest days
Few things could bring your hard slavic face to show
Even the smallest modicum of joy
But there he stands
Dima!, oh Dima
The light of your life
The only man with the power
To make the Czar smile
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 3:32 AM UTC
The news has reminded fans that just because it is the Super Bowl
It is not okay to hit your wife
But you did, and you were drunk, and now there is guacamole on the floor.
Peeling back your ********
Like a clown
Forever stripping away tricolor cloth to reveal
More tricolor cloth
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 2:06 AM UTC
We look on the shoulders filling the stage of the Chicago Auditorium.
A fat mayor has spoken much English and the mud of his speech is crossed with quicksilver hisses elusive and rapid from floor and gallery.
A neat governor speaks English and the listeners ring chimes to his clear thoughts.
Joffre speaks a few words in French; this is a voice of the long firing line that runs from the salt sea dunes of Flanders to the white spear crags of the Swiss mountains.
This is the man on whose yes and no has hung the death of battalions and brigades; this man speaks of the tricolor of his country now melted in a great resolve with the starred bunting of Lincoln and Washington.
This is the hero of the Marne, massive, irreckonable; he lets tears roll down his cheek; they trickle a wet salt off his chin onto the blue coat.
There is a play of American hands and voices equal to sea-breakers and a lift of white sun on a stony beach.
1.2k
Like a treasured heirloom painting
dulled by passing time,
its colors, sadly faded,
this tricolor of mine.
Once crimson red, now cinnamon,
The blue an aqualine,
When Liberty was naked
We draped her in its folds.
The boys in blue held this high
in times that try men’s souls.
Let not the flag of freedom drop
nor linger in the dust.
Let faded glory be restored-
In Liberty we trust.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 9:48 PM UTC
Was out past Southend,
about eleven thirty five,
Saw a whole troop of girls,
dancing very much alive;
I struggled to my feet,
slapped a smile across my face,
Turned my sallow gaze
toward their alcoholic grace.
I said "evening ladies," and
I just tipped my hat, but
Hell, no sorry luck for this
shabby-legged cat. They ascer-
Tained a certain thought and
laughed into the night,
Quite the effervescent attitude
for the solemn moonlight. So with no
Pennies in my cap despite my
earnest little ditty, I just got
Right back on the train and rode it
straight into the city.
The conductor with his cyanide in
silver coated capsules, takes a
Tricolor mandolin and
plays it to relax you. A
Beggar on the chairs emitting
insight by the glass, and a
Banker saying prayers for our
little midnight mass. Be-
Spoke attire from far away to
dress your tired frame, and a
Medal and a badge with which to
decorate your name.
Tracks of steel and sterling pounds to
take you where you please, with
Speed unwavered, flying through with
masochistic ease. I got my
Map and made it through, to
Angel up on high,
Got off the train in pouring rain,
with nurses passing by.
Jul 7, 2011
Jul 7, 2011 at 5:13 PM UTC
Who am I?
I must be black because my absent father won’t come back.
I am eccentric. I am authentic.
I am something you would never forget to mention.
I am a Black woman.
Who do you want me to be?
I must be Asian because with eyes like these I can solve any equation.
I am intelligent. I am pure elegance.
I am delicate.
I am an Asian woman.
Who do you think I am?
I must be Hispanic because my last name simply states it.
I am diligent. I am militant.
I am an immigrant.
I am a Hispanic woman.
Who should I be?
I may be white by culture, but not by sight.
I am privileged. I am a perfect image.
I have no limits.
I am a White woman.
On paper, the box I checked says Asian,
But sometimes I forget.
What if my race isn't solo, or singular?
It’s a duet—or even a quartet.
My race is tricolor—sometimes invisible.
My race isn't inside, and no, it's not physical.
What if my race is the rushing water of the Mississippi river?
The river just flows and flows—
Runs wherever it may go,
But some are quiet as they trickle in;
Drop by drop a new river begins,
As the water mixes, roaring free.
If you want to label my race, fine, label me.
Label my hair, my customs, or my speech.
Race is just a rumor that mankind decided to teach.
I wish I could forget that I have a race,
That the color is still staining my face.
I'm tired of the separation,
The segregation, the humiliation,
The exhaustion of having a race.
Why label the color on my skin?
Why not embrace the person that I hold within?
*R.A.C.E. stands for Reclassify All Children Equally.
May 23, 2019
May 23, 2019 at 5:07 PM UTC
We know that to look now would set us ablaze,
the projectionist has loaded up the next reel,
but still we can’t seem to avert our gaze.
The clumsiest cinema still often sways.
The sound may be garbled, the edits piecemeal,
but we know that to look would still set us ablaze.
We question ourselves as the velvet drapes raise—
the playhouse itself thus begets our ordeal—
but still we can’t seem to avert our gaze.
The schoolmarms all warned us against such forays,
having seen how the real sinks into the surreal.
Yes, we know that to look now will set us ablaze.
Now the actors all shout patriotic clichés,
and we balk at the film’s jingo-populist zeal,
Even still, we can’t seem to avert our gaze.
Transfixed by tricolor and beset with malaise,
but what truths did Lot’s wife’s noncompliance reveal?
For we know that to look now will set us ablaze,
but still we can’t seem to avert our gaze.
Sep 9, 2020
Sep 9, 2020 at 1:30 AM UTC
black
like the color of his hair
when he left home at twenty
like the darkest of nights
he spent counting the grey of the stars
as if stroking the grey
on his mother’s head
b l a c k
like the dress he bought for his daughter
for when he’ll get to see her again
like the gun that adorned his hand
while his body bled
orange
white
blue
green
b l a c k
like the lines on his sister’s face
when the kohl raced with her tears
that spilled out of her eyes
while life spilled out of him
like the son his grandmother got to see-
her flesh and blood
in flesh and in blood
burnt, buried, dead
just ash
b l a c k
like the broken bangles on his wife’s wrist
as she tried to piece his broken body back together
her heart crumbling with grief
while he crumbled away from life
b l a c k
like what once had been red
and colorful
happy
amorous
is nothing but just plain dark
veiling the stars in the casket grey
the sky rests
like the tiny dancers of gold and honor
on his shoulders
confined within a coffin
cuffed in tricolor
but underneath it all
it’s all just plain
black.
Feb 17, 2019
Feb 17, 2019 at 12:16 AM UTC
Juan, aquel militar de tres abriles,
Que con gorra y fusil sueña en ser hombre,
Y que ha sido en sus guerras infantiles
Un glorioso heredero de mi nombre;
Ayer, por tregua al belicoso juego,
Dejando en un rincón la espada quieta,
Tomó por voluntad, no a sangre y fuego,
Mi mesa de escribir y mi gaveta.
Allí guardo un laurel, y viene al caso
Repetir lo que saben mis testigos:
Esa corona de oropel y raso
La debo, no a la gloria, a mis amigos.
Con sus manos pequeñas y traviesas,
Desató el niño, de la verde guía,
El lazo tricolor en que hay impresas
Frases que él no descifra todavía.
Con la atención de un ser que se emociona
Miró las hojas con extraño gesto,
Y poniendo en mis manos la corona,
Me preguntó con intención: -«¿Qué es esto?»
-«Esto es -repuse- el lauro que promete
La gloria al genio que en su luz inunda...»
-«¿Y por qué lo tienes?»
-Por juguete,
Le respondió mi convicción profunda.
Viendo la forma oval, pronto el objeto
Descubre el niño, de la noble gala;
Se la ciñe, faltándome al respeto
Y hecho un héroe se aleja por la sala.
¡Qué hermosa dualidad! Gloria y cariño
Con su inocente acción enlazó ufano,
Pues con el lauro semejaba el niño
Un diminuto emperador romano.
Hasta creí que de su faz severa
Irradiaban celestes resplandores,
Y que anhelaba en su imperial litera
Ir al Circo a buscar los gladiadores.
Con su nuevo disfraz quedé asombrado
(No extrañéis en un padre estos asombros),
Y corrí por un trapo colorado
Que puse y extendí sobre sus hombros.
Mirélo así con cándido embeleso,
Me transformé en su esclavo humilde y rudo,
Y -«¡Ave César!- le dije, dame un beso,
¡Yo que muero de penas, te saludo!»
-«¿César?»- me preguntó lleno de susto
Y yo sintiendo que su amor me abrasa,
-«¡César!» -le respondí- «César Augusto
De mi honor, de mi honra y de mi casa»
Quitéle el manto, le volví la espada,
Recogí mi corona de poeta,
Y la guardé, deshecha y empolvada,
En el fondo sin luz de mi gaveta.
602
The men of Massachusetts were falling back in disarray
They had held their line for hours on this hot and humid day.
Nathan Allen bore the tricolor when they were ordered to withdraw
But he turned and charged the rebel line because of what he saw.
The regimental banner had fallen to the clay
The rebels too had eyed the prize and they were on their way.
The bullets sang their song of death as from his friend’s dead hands
He bore the colors back to where his unit made their stand.
The honor of the regiment was wrapped up in their banner
To Nathaniel Allan, more than his life, that mattered.
He was cited for his courage; all had seen what he had done.
Upon his grave they placed a star, the honor that he won.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 9:58 PM UTC
Rainy days mud
my garden, the golden root is rotting
my wishing well spills over
I am spent
flaccid roads to the city
get me nowhere, no one wants
to pay for that, the world stands still
my little son is sleepwalking around me
by touch, cow and calf look
at me and frown, sighing
vapours muffled by the fine droplets
of rainy tears on the globes of my eyes
the sachets of water in which the world
always is upside down
a violet hangs and thinks:
mud will become waterproof
slate, eventually
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 3:38 AM UTC
Cuando escribió su libro azul
Rubén Darío no era verde?
No era escarlata Rimbaud,
Góngora de color violeta?
Y Victor Hugo tricolor?
Y yo a listones amarillos?
Se juntan todos los recuerdos
de los pobres de las aldeas?
Y en una caja mineral
guardaron sus sueños los ricos?
322