"unpolluted" poems
The nuns did not have much
But they valued all
And truer, fuller days filled with chores
Passed the sun-moon-suns
Some nights the mountains
Were cold, so they gave her hot coals
Their bodies thin and fragile, impossibly resilient
Winter; cup of animal fat
Thirteen years, cooking for twenty peers
In lessons learned foreign tongue
From her alien education, taught too
She passed her blue-star-blues
Painting sweetened hues
The elevation and scene in dripping sweeps of brush
Nepal became even more
Beautiful on paper
And behind thoughtful eyes
A tourist hands a wood carver
Several years salary, is this
Enough?
Masterpiece etched given free petty possessions
Empty handed back to hungry mouths
Fulfilled and satisfied
At night the unpolluted bright
Reflected off the lake; God smile
Rocky range round in isolation
The wind, for once
Whispered truth
She inhaled the honesty, and reunited art
With canvas
The Earth shook, no one else felt it
But she knew
And happy filled a forgotten face
In wise silence
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 11:29 PM UTC
The streets are tattooed with potholes and the sidewalks are covered in broken glasses.
Our bodies are demolished and stripped off from all integrity and decency.
The road to having crisp air, diluted wars and unpolluted humanity is foggy. It fights off all good fortune like a new born baby counting his seconds on earth.
We belong to the categorised society, the one that's heart beats with sorrow and skin is impregnated with melanin.
The nation is an equation, divided, torn apart like an old cloth with stains of dried up blood.
It's ******* are dry , wrinkly and contaminated .The painful strokes on our backs are escalating. They walk towards our chests ,ooze in blood and opens themselves up to beg for mercy.
Mothers with squirming innocence on their backs. Their home is built of threats and poverty . It holds on for dear life during the winter and breathes relief during the summer.
The children's appearances are misleading. They are all bony. Their eyes are tucked in deep into their skulls like the home of a porcupine. Turning nothing but a blind eye to the inequality and pain that they hAve to endure.
Fathers partake on a journey to seek for the daily bread. They embark on the beast of Hope. He breathes steam and his skin is coated with the color of the sun set. His feet are inclined to the railway.
It bends and runs to a place of hope. A place where the only purpose a male child lives for in our country.
The tools are weeping and begging for a taste of water.
Their skins are suffocating. And howl for a glimpse of fresh air.
But rest is a luxury that the tools rarely taste.
A luxury men wish for day and night.. under the red acres of the sun and when the skies weeps sympathy for it's fellow brothers.
We are entitled to the misfortune and great grief. Poverty is our clan name. It walks with us daily , under our feet that's embroidered with blisters and broken heels. Cuts as deep as the Kimberly hole .
We are the black endangered mammals with nothing but equality to fight for.
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 4:55 PM UTC
Freedom
In the cold breeze
Perched high on the icy stone
Snow glazed lakes spanning for miles
I feel at home
At peace
This is my element
I could touch to tops of trees
And breath unpolluted air
Careful steps to prevent slipping
And falling prey to the beauty of nature
The danger
The peace
The passion
I love it all
I am home
At last
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 3:38 AM UTC
A flourishing field of flowers strides across the teeming landscape
Weaving wind currents disperse fallen leaves; birds soar above the bellowing howls of Zephyr
The meadow is illuminated identical to the shining stars seen overhead
Such a place as this can’t be described merely in words
To understand the field, one must hear its echoing melody
Can you hear its blissful humming in the crisp night air?
Can you hear the birds serenading every dawn? Can you hear them whistling lullabies every dusk?
Can you hear Gaia’s song? So splendid, you not only hear it but can taste its saccharine stanzas?
To know the field, one must feel its warmth and bask in its radiance
Can you feel the firm grasp of the Sun's rays? Can you tell it won’t ever let go of you? Do you care?
Can you feel the field’s invigorating warmth enticing you?
Can you feel it take away your gloomy desolation? Can you feel it take away your stress and doubts?
To appreciate the field, one must see its abundant life
Can you see the trees growing in peace as they amass their armies yet carry no animosity and strife?
Can you see the pure, unpolluted streams that flow forever as if in a perpetual race against Father Time?
Can you see the Nightingale in her tree composing? Can you see the other as he anticipates her words?
To fathom the field’s perfection you must find it yourself. “Where is this field? Someone must know”
It’s in a place that must be found on your own. There’s only one place where it could begin to grow
The field lies where anyone can find it but it’s also a place where many will never find its mark
The paradise you seek can only be found deep in your heart, after you let Love cultivate the Dark
Oct 28, 2012
Oct 28, 2012 at 2:55 PM UTC
A man stands. overlooking two different visions. Two different choices.
On the left he gazed over the glorious modernized utopia. Tall prominent skyscrapers, gleaming in the dazzling pure sunlight. Clinical white rows of spacious suburbia. Unnaturally green gardens of perfectly shaped, perfectly cut square grass accompanying the houses. Polished, scentless people strolled down the un-littered perfection of the linear streets. Enormous great smiles featured on the faces of all. The urban paradise. Biblical, eden in practise, sanctity. Economical bliss. Unpolluted, crime free, social perfection. No inequality, racism, no hatred only love among broters. No depression. The endless rows stretched glorious miles, convenience, supermarkets, brand new glistening, hospitals, all necessity in perfect working order. No unemployment, no political unrest. Every man among equals. Utopia.
On the right hand side, wretched poverty as far as the eye can see. Cramped, overwhelmed shanty towns. Terrified people, dragging themselves through diseased streets. Crippling illness plaguing the antagonized masses. There is no employment here, no glistening new buildings. Only the decaying festering ruins of lifetimes of selfishness. Hatred, jealousy, paranoia, neurotic fluttering harpy’s, harlequins of the night. Plagued minds, plagued bodies. Gargantuan monsters of men rose from the rubble. Demented. Lava flows freely through the crumbling streets. There are no trees here, no vegetation, only blackened earth. Blackened with the ****** despair of man. Only anguish in this land. The black sun burns with hateful rage in the sooty, cloudy toxic sky, the only rain falls as corpses falling from sardine cans to the sky. Burnt out cancerous lungs, filled with sulphurous air from the giant volcano's of dead minds, spewing deadly chemicals into the already uninhabitable environment. The demons of despair stalk this land, endlessly wallowing in there own self-loathing, amongst other vile things.
The decision resting on his shoulders governs life for all men, all men to come. His left side, yearning for paradise, freedom, equality for all, peace, communal gain.
His right side leaning towards narcissistic self gain. Taking the world for himself, watching alone the setting of the poisoned blck sun, poisoned by his greed.
He walked forward, leaving the realms of choice behind him. The future was his to choose.
Apr 10, 2012
Apr 10, 2012 at 4:45 PM UTC
I would be a fool to compare
Your presence to that
Of a candle towering valiantly in a dark room,
Acting as a guide as some would say.
You would eventually burn out,
Leaving me alone with no sense of direction.
You are closer to a star
On an unpolluted night,
Making your way to me
No matter the distance.
And even though you may
Become sheathed at times,
Knowing you are always there
Brings me a sense of relief.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
Love’s Lexicon
I must make a new vocabulary.
My dear, the words I’ve used in those
Over and over descriptions, signifying all you are,
Are well and past their sell-by-date, should
End their shelf-life here and now. No longer can I
Form their letters truly without knowing well
I test love’s patience . . . and your own.
So in desperation’s way
I adopt a different lexicon
Offer you, my love,
a fresh taxonomy.
*concave the slapp
pressure inbuilt
evenly glassed
held held holdingnow
but ambulatory
moons at full stretch
figuration tempering
notonce twicemore
pressure wieghedupon
beyond breath’s exhale
membraneous goldening
frecklation the hands’ fastness
eyerich sightedkeen here
gone awaygone away
bodystretched senticle
smoooth*
A Proper Poem
Poised to conjure music
from the nothing air, and
with only some frivolous
verse to guide me,
I rest momentarily
to watch the screen of my mind
show your dear self to me:
the sweet flow of your body
uncovered in the shower;
that dance of choosing clothes
and dressing. I have sometimes
watched and wondered,
wondered that you could be
quite as you are.
So precious in my sight,
so very precious.
Water’s Kiss
I shall only write you
very short poems of love
so you can taste them
in one gulp as you might
from a Highland stream
unpolluted, soft,
peat -filtered, cold,
and bubbled with air
from falling across stones
into your cupped hand.
My love, bring now
this water’s kiss
to your waiting lips.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 2:27 AM UTC
My nightmare filled with streaks of saintly garb
rousing the flares of benevolence
and the strokes of compassionate ink
scribbled on to the snow-hued papyrus.
The fields of golden grains unmasked
the unpolluted ecstacy of childlike desires
Simple.
Innocent.
Pure.
Softly swaying as the hammock in the dew air
gently rupturing the laddery pride.
It waves its resilient trunk
then stoops to the god of snow.
And the windows to the soul will tire peeking
and paint instead ashen hopes
Languid.
Reminiscent of pallid hermit
caressing colorless sands,
tranquilly hummed by the songs of a lone shell
under the unambiguous sky.
Compose your poems
now with the sallow ink
on a dustless, ethereal white sheet.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 10:35 PM UTC
Like a marvellous mountain against the blue sky,
the vivid, bright, clear, unpolluted snow,
the majesty of you drives all my thoughts,
my concerns, my problems away.
Dec 25, 2016
Dec 25, 2016 at 3:50 AM UTC
I yearn to exist in a space where the stars all but blaze
Where stars aren't celebrities
Where they bask in the night sky unpolluted
And just exist
I crave truly being in an environment that does not depend upon phone screens
Where my peers and myself do not walk through life in an addicted daze
Unaware of the haze that descends as an effect of such technological dependence
We are walking around with our eyes unconsciously searching for the stimulus that society constantly feeds us
These electronic signals flashing upon thin panels of glass
And This is what we call Living
The dopamine flooding our brain when that text vibration brings our popularity to attention
Capturing our attention holding it captive
We are prisoners of our own purchases
Rusting our humanity away enchained
In a web of unsocial media and notifications
We never have any silence
When was the last time you just sat silent doing nothing
When was the last time you allowed your mind even a sliver of space to just exist
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 11:18 AM UTC
Thoughts on the air about life on earth
I wake up every day full of life,
Leaves on the ground breaking your heart,
Understanding living beings and love them,
Roots going up and down searching water.
Small world it's so perfect for ants,
Rabbits come on the scene,
Wolfs and foxes living with goats,
Dolphins screaming for unpolluted seas,
Sublime the world could be?
Night fall asleep with the dark side,
Day show up some little light,
Horses eating green herbs,
Birds sing along beautiful songs,
Cats and dogs loving each other!
Bluebirds red and black without leaves,
Grounds clean like roads,
Farmers and herbicides.
Seasons show so many births and deaths,
the power of the universe itself,
Sun shining to warm everything that grows,
Silence in every thought, in every blow. ..
Victor Marques
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 7:11 AM UTC
Quiet little One...
No longer must you cling
To those clamouring,
Corrosive thoughts of old.
Accept that We Were
All born yesterday.
And again today...
And in every passing hour.
So even Now,
Our spirit pulsing with the Moment.
Breathe as the sky breathes...
One continuous sigh of Completion.
A subtle forward motion;
Effortless, attentive,
Unpolluted in contentment.
Arm yourself with joy,
Infinitely beguiled by life,
This plethora of blessings;
Never ceasing to revel in a Common state of wonder.
Your awkward smile,
Your broken shine,
Your gentle sorrows;
They light the candle
Of your eye; becoming
Amplifiers of your beauty...
Sparkling rays of laughter,
Tossed like tinsel,
Across each heartfelt Conversation.
Waken to the embrace of
Human error;
For both Comedy and Tragedy
Are remedies we share.
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC
War & Peace
After the war in Norway and the German army left, income
and employment they had brought such as building
roads and airports disappeared.
It was a time when my brother and I stole coal from the train
depot’s supply, potatoes and other root vegetable were
and the fish in an unpolluted water was plentiful.
We were caught by the police they let me go because I looked
small and innocent. My brother was sent to a youth correction
centre for two years- it still makes me angry thinking of it-
peace had done us no favours.
My mother was doing two newspaper rounds my sister and I
helped her, the morning round was the worst, Norway is a
cold country it was me who found the dead man he had frozen
to death, drunk and falling asleep in a snow drift.
I’m sitting here as an elderly man remembering the old days
and “not good old days” we had each other and family love.
I sit here ancient man with house, car and a modest success,
oh, my why wouldn’t I give to feel the love again, but they
have gone now- all of them- and I’m the only link to our past.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 3:39 AM UTC
Its a long, long walk
where yesterday's images trail the long winding roads of nowhere
Seem ajar to what ever mystery life once held and echoed
the silent slumber of faded promises and disillusioned ideals
Soak together in the oblivion of the abyss, and cries.
There's a spot, unpolluted by the lies and wrongs
Far away from that changing that consumed and diluted us,
Where still I behold your perfection ever anew, like a dream
That even in the wakened state I feel close to the bone.
Time doesn't change things, nor have we,
I still see the sparkle in your eyes
That silent want to be held again
kissed and loved so tender
Like in the day's before the pain.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 1:58 PM UTC
A rumbling,
Echoes across the shattered wasteland
Acid snow drifts in the caustic air
Past my helmet visor.
My gas filter rattles
As I **** in the foul air,
The next wave is coming
Great war machines,
Chugging slowly toward our battered dugouts.
And for what?
A body of unpolluted water
Barely wide enough to step over,
Or a tiny stretch of untainted farmland.
I sit in my ramshackle bunker
With my comrades,
Checking my rifle one last time,
Knowing in my heart, that we
Can't push back the next assault.
I sit silently cursing my ancestors,
For leaving me this god-forsaken legacy
For shattering my Earth.
As the first shells start to fall.
Aug 11, 2010
Aug 11, 2010 at 8:23 PM UTC
I yearn to exist in a space where the stars all but blaze
Where “stars” aren’t celebrities their plaster faces plastered
on magazine covers lining the shopping aisles
But where they bask in the night sky unpolluted
And exist radiantly
Where the culture ceases to revolve around
the newest latest fashion or video
And instead revolves around the ripening of figs
And the blooming of chrysanthemums
And the migrations of the swallows
Where we look like awestruck children
to those unpolluted stars above us
and this great earth around us
to tell the time and pass the seasons,
Living then in harmony with the revolution of the very soil and air
from which our life flows
It’s easy to forget
I crave an environment
that does not depend upon phone screens
Where my peers and myself do not walk through life
in an addicted daze
Unaware of the haze that descends as an effect
of such technological dependence
We are walking around with our eyes unconsciously searching
for the stimulus that society constantly feeds us
We are tripping over ourselves just trying to keep up
These electronic signals flashing upon thin panels of glass
And This is what we call Living
The dopamine flooding our brains
when that text vibration brings our popularity to attention
Capturing our attention holding it captive
We are prisoners of our own purchases
Stepping into voluntary chains
Producing our wrists for shackles
Rusting our humanity away enchained
in a web of unsocial media and notifications
We neglect to make space for our own existence
Disconnecting from our own physical experience
We don't even feel our fingers typing and swiping
Hoarding gluttonous over likes and comments and click bait headlines
Consumed by our own consummation
We never have any silence
I yearn to exist in a space where our eyes like stars all but blaze
Awake with acute awareness of the present moment
Where we break shackles and push comfort zones
Basking in the raw beauty of an exuberant life we are conscious to experience
I yearn to exist together as radiant as the stars in the vastest galaxy
Jan 27, 2017
Jan 27, 2017 at 5:25 PM UTC
I'm sorry this ever happened to you.
I'm sorry you were just an 8 year old, so full of life and you didn't deserve this pain.
I'm sorry those pedophilic pigs preyed on your innocence.
I'm sorry you were born in India- a country powered by people, pioneered by strong men of principles but still feel powerless to protect its own people.
I'm sorry our laws are enforced to protect the lawless.
I'm sorry there is a ***** so possessed by religion out there who passed a mean comment on you.
I'm sorry there are countless many who favors his opinion strongly.
I'm sorry none of us could protect you or bring you back to life.
I'm sorry that I can only hope hell does exist and those men do rot in its deepest pits.
I'm sorry all of us can only sympathize and none of us can empathize.
I'm sorry I have no voice of my own.
I'm sorry my child, I truly am because you were born a girl.
I'm sorry to say how lucky I feel to be alive, that my sister or mother or friends are unpolluted and still breathing just fine.
I'm sorry this poem is pointless as the many hashtags that come and go after each **** but I had to write this for my own peace of mind.
I'm sorry as I can only sit back and pray there won't be anymore Asifas.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 3:07 AM UTC
From deep within the light is born
From deep within comes a brand new dawn
Authentic and unpolluted by thought
Far away from the traditions that man has taught
When the whole world breathes in synchronization
To become one breath
Merged with all of creation
Illuminated like the evening star
Shining bright from afar
Darkness causes the light to exist
In balanced contrast are the keys on a piano played with great bliss
The ebony and ivory creates a melody
Your life song of harmony
Where Love is a top priority
Sprung forth from the Falun Gong philosophy
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 8:50 AM UTC
There sitting at the kitchen table
not knowing what time it is
Suddenly surprised by an unrecognized voice,
that of a young boy
an age of eleven or twelve, I presume.
I stand up quickly and walk to the sink,
The boy's voice loudly and confidently projected
through that of a microphone.
His love of God I hear in his call, His love of God I hear in his voice,
His desire to do something good I hear from his soul.
His fitra (nature) unpolluted by the evil, by the gimmicks of an unruly environment.
His innocence I listen to. His innocence and sincere faith in God. His love of God making me cry.
The most beautiful recitation of the Adhan (the call to prayer) by a youngster I have ever heard.
His parents, a parent, or another elder likely having brought him here.
The boy's call called me to my responsibility, to my duty.
A very good thing the adult brothers letting a young boy call the Adhan.
I want to meet this boy. I wish to know his name. Who is he? I want to find him. If I do, I'll tell him, You did a fantastic job. God is proud of you. I think you're near to Him.
I cry now thinking of another young boy who doesn't call the Adhan because he doesn't know how. He hasn't been taught how. He hasn't been taught how by his parents. He hasn't been taught how by the community. He hasn't been taught how by his school.
I cry but not long because like the young boy reciting the Adhan or calling us to prayer, the other young boy who doesn't know how to belongs to God and is in His good care and God the Most Just, the Most Loving takes the best care of all of His belongings.
I cry but not long because the young boy's Adhan or call called me to or reminded me of my responsibility to the other young boy and to another young boy.
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 8:27 AM UTC
London, 1999
Oh the fences they hold true,
wandering through heavy woven forests of tree roots
to pastures of sunken vegetation
along dirt roads nestled in overcast shadows,
as a family picnics, or so it would appear.
A rejoice of sorts if only you were still here.
I see your silhouette appear and reappear,
the wind etching your likeness
upon each cairn that dots pastoral.
The walking path becomes overwhelmed by sunlight.
Perhaps you are still working in the fields,
Your wind-burned and calloused exterior
holding rough rooted abhorrence in your lowered brow.
You remain sanctified and unpolluted,
piling sun bleached stone upon sunken roots,
the dark shadows solidified in foreground fate.
Oh how your canvas womb gives heartless birth.
Thrice mangled memories,
of dark French roast in an earth tone demitasse
and crumpets served slightly charred on the veranda
on a chipped porcelain Victorian saucer
with only a faint shade of lavender along its edge.
As the dark brown stain in the once white silk tablecloth
glowers through the prongs of your tarnished silver fork,
You stare across the table
at the emptiness of the once filled bookcases.
I realize that your only genuine notion of remorse
is in the severed piece of an antique plate.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 5:44 PM UTC
Unchallenged beauty
Beauty unchanged
Perfectly balanced beauty
Eyes remain engaged
Undisputed beauty
I lost words for your praise
Unpolluted beauty
You're ineffable in one phrase
You still seem impeccable in your flawed days
You're above the beauties
My stone heart says
Feb 8, 2020
Feb 8, 2020 at 10:17 AM UTC
Forefathers shedding blood
In a spectacular
Bravery and unity
Heralded
"A violated-not sovereignty
And self confidence"
For posterity!
What is more
An unpolluted culture
And intact identity!
Thus, maintaining integrity
And hard-preserved identity
Getting poverty and lack
Behind our back,
For the coming generation
We have to pave the track
With Mega projects Like
--GERD--
So that on a bright tomorrow
Our children embark!
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 6:32 AM UTC
I wish
I could cut myself off
From the commotion in the world.
Find
A door, portal, or some outlet
Which would take me to a state of
Tranquility;
A place were I could lay my body down
And not feel
The slightest twinge of pain...
FEEL
Unpolluted
Unailed.
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 9:29 AM UTC
the world was good
light shown through the dark void
waters parted to reveal dry land
Flora and Faunus presided
over primordial paradise
the green earth breathed crisp
cerulean skies
stars twinkled laser-like
through the unpolluted vastness
and every month a dragon
swallowed the moon
lions and lambs played peacefully
roses bloomed in deserts
rivers and oceans teemed
with every kind of cat and dog fish
buffalo roamed by the millions
and chickens came before eggs
nightingales sang songs
with humpbacks
butterflies flapped their wings
without consequence
the earth was new
the garden was fresh
then God created man
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 3:16 AM UTC