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  • Abhishek Sharma (1/6/2014 5:28:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    read my poem heer ranjha.. thankss

  • Timileyin Gabriel Olajuwon (1/6/2014 5:14:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    A HUNDRED YEARS.
    A hundred years
    On the road
    Crooked and bend
    within the severe cold
    On a journey for a new trend

    On the road
    where we crest- quest for freedom
    and left battered by the storm
    of persecution and staggered.


    On the road
    Where life hits so bad
    And we live so hard
    On a journey for freedom
    In our own kingdom

    A hundred years
    Where we lived crippled
    by the menacles of segregation
    and the chains of discrimination

    A hundred years
    we live on a lonely island of poverty
    in the midst
    of vast ocean material prosperity

    A hundred years
    On the road
    with no heart of symphathy
    for our daily weeping

    For a hundred years
    Our mouth
    sing the song of our groan
    of freedom at last
    until justice rolls like river
    and rigteousness like a mighty stream
    from every mountains side
    to our inner heart

    we shall continue to ring
    and solemly sing
    for peace within our midst
    with no segregation of races
    For an hundred years to come.


    @ copyright 2013
    Timileyin Gabriel Olajuwon.

  • Terrance Tracy (1/5/2014 4:42:00 PM) Post reply Stage

    Writing Poetry

    A poem is born of the inspiration
    and filled with perspiration
    and sometimes precipitation.

    Those who don't understand
    precipitation in the poem I am
    referring to tears that comes
    from writing from ones heart.

    Those who don't understand perspiration
    It is the hard work that's put into verse.

    You have brought nothing new to the table; if you
    keep writing these verses, they are rehearsed
    and won't contribute to your purse.

    I thought it best to get it off my chest,
    before I am put to rest with repeated rhymes
    used too many times.

    Writing poetry is like painting a picture
    using words instead of charcoal, oil, water color,
    or pastel.

    It seems that they prefer words used by muse,
    divine inspiration has no room they may have met
    their fate. It is a supernatural discourse
    that is preferred.

    I don't care if it rhymes too much or has
    been well rehearsed; either you like it
    are you dislike it, it really doesn't matter,
    we all have our own style that will be with
    us for a while.

    I do not mind constructive criticism
    so let's not call for a poetical exorcism.
    I think it's fair to say it appears poets
    have no sense of humor when you try
    to amuse a muse.

    If you are still reading this poem
    and it does not meet your expectations,
    or qualifications I apologize for
    using the wrong media to relay the frustrations.

    I have read beautiful poems in this forum
    however some of the poems are downright weird,
    such as this one.
    Terrence Tracy

  • Shirin Kaul (1/5/2014 10:56:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    a poem written by me about gender inequality in India:

    When I was inside my mother,
    I heard my parents talk to one another.

    They thought I was a baby boy
    And gifted my mother fruits and a toy.
    For me to use when I would come out;
    Where I could play and I could shout.

    But when they came to know the pearl,
    Was actually a little girl.
    My father became sad;
    And after a few minutes, mad.

    He beat my mother very much
    But I was inside her safer clutch.

    As I came out I looked around,
    My mother was silent I found.

    As I grew up my parents hated me more.
    What my brother got, I never bore.
    Where he went I could never see;
    This was the world for me.

    And I thought about it too much.
    I could neither sleep nor have my lunch.

    Why don’t you realize:
    Even I feel hurt, I sleep, I cry
    I am also a living being, tender and mild.
    What if a girl I am also a child?

    Replies for this message:
  • Stephen Mateus (1/5/2014 12:34:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Everybody check out my poems they're not bad I'm very young and need a different view on things

  • Melissa Robinson (1/1/2014 4:16:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    LUST

    I stare into your eyes and I'm in a trance,
    lets let go of innocence.
    I am unable to hold myself back any longer,
    I press myself against your lips.

    Body to body, raging in lust;
    Nothing feels more intense than your trembling touch.
    Embrace your desire, manhandle me love;
    Seductive by nature~ sharp and clean cut.

  • Doris Cornago (12/29/2013 3:20:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Hello, Poets. I just want to repeat a warning by my publisher that once I post a poem in PoemHunter, I cannot publish the same in amazon.com or any other publisher on account of SELF-PLAGIARISM. Would anybody care to confirm or refute this?I will be grateful for any authoritative view on this matter and I feel, most will be grateful for guidance. Anybody can comment from PoemHunter?

    Replies for this message:
    • Fiona Powell (1/2/2014 10:28:00 AM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

      First of all, the term 'self-plagiarism' is an oxymoron. How can you plagiarise yourself?However, after much googling on this worrying proposition, it seems to boil down to the individual circumstance ... more

  • Mala Shukla (12/29/2013 1:22:00 PM) Post reply | Read 2 replies Stage

    Settings and Fora
    Open source
    Thoughts and Feelings
    Opened resource
    Whence they form
    What need reinforce
    Questions the quietetude
    Of longings or remorse
    An oppurtunity to define
    Or even to realize
    The recesses and depths
    Of buried recourse

    Replies for this message:
    • Fiona Powell (1/2/2014 10:10:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      1. It's spelt O-P-P-O-R-T-U-N-I-T-Y. 2. What is or what are " Fora" ? 3. What is this poem about? Thanks.

    • Melissa Robinson (1/1/2014 4:18:00 AM) Post reply Stage

      This poem has such great depth too it

  • Mala Shukla (12/29/2013 1:16:00 PM) Post reply | Read 1 reply Stage

    Settings and Fora
    Open source
    Thoughts and Feelings
    Opened resource
    Whence they form
    What need reinforce
    Questions the quietetude
    Of longings or remorse
    An oppurtunity to define
    Or even to realize
    The recesses and depths
    Of buried recourse

    Replies for this message:
  • Viviana Armadillo (12/29/2013 3:09:00 AM) Post reply Stage

    Full of Memories Trilogy

    Part 1:

    Chapter 1: Afternoon Tea

    As I walk along a woody path
    I notice a little cottage beside it.
    And in front of it sat a little old woman
    with leaf-like clothing with colors of the Fall
    I approach the woman with such curiosity.
    " What you staring' at, you rascal?
    Not come to rob me, 'ave ya?" asks the woman angrily.
    I jump back startled and surprise, shaking my head.
    She grunts as she stands and walks to her house.
    " Come in and have tea with me, " said the woman.
     
    I walked behind her, refusing to see her wrath.
    Once inside, the cottage was candle lit.
    Small tables and chairs and walls covered with writings of omen.
    Portraits of people hanging on the mantle, both big and small.
    Some looked rather disdained and filled with frailty.
    Others tired, old, weary, and historical.
    And also seems like they liked to live dangerously
    with scars on their faces, making the life they may have lead.
    " My great-great grandma once had a mouse, "
    said the woman.
     
    " Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable."
    The woman had laid out the items for the afternoon tea.
    Smelling the cookies, I quickly sat down in the little chair.
    I grimaced as the chair groaned under my weight.
    She pours the tea into a small cup
    and gave me a cookie, which smells really good.
    Then we start talking about the years of seasons
    And so many other things that we lost track of time.
    After we realized that we had talked through the afternoon
    and into the morning, she guided me to a guest bed and slept.
     
    I woke with a start in a position that was uncomfortable.
    Then I realized that the afternoon tea was a dream
    and am wrestling with my tangled hair.
    I come into the kitchen and saw on my table a paper with a date.
    And also some scribbling about a hut
    Through the paper was some faint coloration that is really good.
    Then the dream came to me with reasons
    to be held about my crime.
    Thinking of the leaves coloring in my mind like yellow and maroon.
    and thinking of the woman whom I owe to with my debt.

    Chapter 2: A Child's Dream

    I woke with a start in a position that was uncomfortable.
    Then I realized that the afternoon tea was a dream
    and am wrestling with my tangled hair.
    I come into the kitchen and saw on my table a paper with a date.
    And also some scribbling about a hut.
    Through the paper was some faint coloration that is really good.
    Then the dream came to me with reasons
    to be held about my crime.
    Thinking of the leaves coloring in my mind like yellow and maroon.
    And thinking of the woman whom I owe to with my debt.
     
    As I look up, I see a pair of eyes glaring at me from the table.
    Seeing the reflection of a woman I once knew;
    No longer to be the same as she used to be.
    Snapping back into reality,
    it is just what I've been hiding from all these years.
    Looking back into the eyes of a child,
    I notice the same features as the old woman.
    I stand here wondering of what I've witnessed
    there laid the items for the afternoon tea
    on the plastic play set of my daughter's.
     
    There was the chair I sat in which is now bent below the table.
    A plastic cookie that I had now had a bite in it on top of a team
    of other fake cookies and now I wouldn’t dare
    to look at my daughter's tear stained face, reminding me of the date
    in the old woman's hut.
    And now I feel like a complete dud.
    In all my years and seasons,
    destroying my daughter's dream is my crime
    and I'm mentalizing that I'm on a quicksand dune
    for having my daughter's play set and imagination wrecked.
    Now I'm completely uncomfortable
    of the damage and wondering what was my due
    of the bill so I can see
    her happy again without frailty.
    She is what I hold as I did with the woman as my dears
    and She didn’t see me go wild
    at this table of such bad omen
    that my daughter has witnessed.
    If this is what I'll be,
    then I'll be in the beef slaughters.

    Chapter 3: The Last Alaskan Thought

    Now I'm completely uncomfortable
    of the damage and wondering what was my due
    of the bill so I can see
    her happy again without frailty.
    She is what I hold as I did with the woman as my dears
    and She didn’t see me go wild
    at this table of such bad omen
    that my daughter has witnessed.
    If this is what I'll be,
    then I'll be in the beef slaughters.
     
    Seeing what I have destroyed has sent a strange chill down my spine,
    remembering the woman who I haven’t seen in years.
    For the snow clouds start to rumble in the east,
    my day is rather dark as I feel the freezing wind on my face.
    First, dreaming of the old woman in the woods that one autumn day.
    Now, I’ve discovered that I’ve ruined my daughter’s play set.
    The darkness in my mind has caused me to feel so bitter about myself.
    As I sit here on this park bench on a winter afternoon,
    I listen to the winter wind and heard the old woman’s voice.
    It sounded as chilling as the wind.
     
    The wind got stronger and unbearable
    and it started to snow and the flurries had whitely dew
    the ground and there are bare spots to see.
    Now since I’m back to reality,
    I began to have my fears
    that all my thoughts went back to my child
    and the old woman.
    I don’t know how much my daughter witnessed
    but I knew that she realized it wasn’t me.
    I wonder how that greatly impacted my daughter’s
     
    Mind. But I’m sure she’ll be fine.
    With all my years,
    I’m remembering that feast
    at the old woman’s place.
    Away from home and was allowed to stay
    For the night and seeing my debt
    Owed to woman, I allowed myself
    To bring her along with me to my house which had soon
    Be ransacked and everything inside was destroyed and everyone gone and I had no choice
    But to stay with the woman who had grinned.
     
    Now the snow is getting worse
    and I am slightly submerse
    under the snow.
    Thinking about my daughter, I went through the flow
    of snow and wind
    Which prickled my exposed skin if I had sinned.
    I walked for 18 miles in the Alaskan snow.
    Wild winds blowing across the snow covered chateau.
    When I came inside the house,
    it is as warm as a smokehouse

    Part 2:

    Chapter 4: Knowing the Old Woman

    Knowing where I want to be
    As I stand at the mantle looking at the pictures.
    But then I turn around, as the door swings open.
    I grab my pipe and walk towards the door.
    A soft autumn breeze has come into the cottage.
    I walk out the door and slam it shut,
    Making it tightly shut so it won’t swing open.
    I sit down onto the log that fell last winter
    In front of my cottage and I made it into a bench.
    And I light my pipe taking in the autumn breeze.
    Then there to my right, I have come to see
    A child of thirteen, looking likes one of those Ashlars.
    Looking like she was as white as a lighthouse beacon
    Or a bouquet of orchid fleur.
    And I certainly can talk to this piece of carnage
    And offer her a goblet
    Of tea as a bargain.
    Then I’ll alter
    And have her wrench
    In my grasp and have myself to appease.
    As much to my wonder, she came up to me.
    Then I’d barked, “What you staring at, you rascal?
    Not come to rob me, ‘ave ya?”
    I knew I startled the child,
    For the child had jumped back scared and nodding.
    I stand and walk to my door and opened it
    “Come have tea with me, ” I said.
    I heard her coming.
    And then we came into my little cottage
    Which was candle lit.
     
    The child looked around, that I could see.
    To her, I knew, was historical.
    I’m thinking to myself, “Now I ‘ave ya.”
    As I went about the cottage to gather the items and set them as wild
    I said, “Please, sit down and make yourself comfortable, ” as I was aiming
    To catch her in my mitt,
    As the child sat down for the smelling of the cookies, who, of course, I fed.
    I handed her a cookie and told her stories of my ancestors as I was bending
    Her will until it was passed the sky after moonlit.
     
    Then I showed her the guest bed
    And when she fell asleep, all the cookies I fed
    Her with had begun to take effect.
    She said in the candle lit room, my plan was perfect,
    About her family of Ashlars
    And where she lived while dreaming of dreamt pictures.
    I scurried off and destroyed the family and what was inside.
    I destroyed the evidence, which could’ve backslide.
    When I came to my cottage, the child was awake
    And showed me the way to her house which made her heart break.
    So I took her in with me
    And taught her to be courtly.

    Chapter 5: The Dying Woman

    Then I showed her the guest bed
    And when she fell asleep, all the cookies I fed
    Her with had begun to take effect.
    She said in the candle lit room, my plan was perfect,
    About her family of Ashlars
    And where she lived while dreaming of dreamt pictures.
    I scurried off and destroyed the family and what was inside.
    I destroyed the evidence, which could’ve backslide.
    When I came to my cottage, the child was awake
    And showed me the way to her house which made her heart break.
    So I took her in with me
    and taught her to be courtly.
    As the years went passed,
    the child has become a beautiful young woman
    And I have become too old and fragile
    And my mind has become confused with fantasy and reality.
    Anytime I had a fit, I would leak out a secret or two.
    So one day, I let it known to what I did with the Ashlars.
    Before I realized on what I had said, I found her bed untouched
    And a note explaining that she had run off.
    Now I realize what my mistake the moment I read the note.
    I went around the valley where the Indians still grazed
    And I went around the nearest town to find the Ashlars girl.
    There were times when I approach someone and they would have an omen
    For they were afraid I was one of the fairy folk and they looked fearful.
    I looked all over the place until I came about an abbey.
    And the monks at the abbey, I asked them to look for the girl so I can say adieu.
    They brought the Ashlars girl who was with the available bachelors
     
    In town but she was still untouched.
    She asked the monks to help treat a cough
    That I had for days and could not create an antidote.
    She was surprised and amazed
    That I hadn’t died and made her churl.
    There in the abbey I laid
    And my eyes began to fade
    And I called the girl to come to say my last wishes
    I wanted her to burn my body into ashes.
    And I told her to keep the cottage
    Since she could use it for marriage.
    As I said my last wishes to her
     
    She told me that she was marrying a banker.
    At last someone who can take care of the girl
    Who would treat her as a pearl.
    I closed my eyes and dreamt
    She never did attempt
    To wake me.

    Chapter 6: The Banker's Mother

    There in the abbey I laid
    and my eyes began to fade
    and I called the girl to come to say my last wishes,
    I wanted her to burn my body into ashes.
    And I told her to keep the cottage
    since she could use it for marriage.
    As I said my last wishes to her,
    she told me that she was marrying a banker.
    At last someone who can take care of the girl
    who would treat her as a pearl.
    I closed my eyes and dreamt
    She never did attempt
    to wake me.

    As I have passed away,
    I was still in the abbey but saw my body
    in the bed that the monks had laid me.
    I saw a man coming behind the Ashlars girl
    and she looked up with a tear stained face
    and met with the man’s face who didn’t look like a monk.
    His face is in the shadows still and when he came to the light,
    I realized that he’s my son.
    I should’ve known he became a banker.
    Now I know that our autumn village blood would go on.
    He brought with him a bouquet
    And rested it on me as I look dreamy.
    He bowed and the Ashlars girl does the curtsy.
    A monk approaches with a ring that has a pearl
    And there at the altar a priest came to pace

    With a monk
    Behind him and the wedding began as the two began to recite.
    After my son and the girl have wed, they went to the cottage as she looks like a beacon.
    “I remember when this cottage was still made of cedar, ”
    said my son as he touched the hanging argon.
    The girl turns around looking surprised
    Her expression could not be disguised.
    “The old woman who died in the abbey was my mother, ”
    my son said, as his wife was to be in anger.
    And then he lightly kissed her lips
    As he was on his way to get a cup to have a sip

    Of wine
    “What would be supper for us to dine?”
    asks my son as he sat down
    and drinking the wine, as he later became a clown.
    I wanted to smack and yell
    Before someone rung the bell.
    Later that year, the Ashlars girl have gave birth
    To a little girl who was not her father’s worth.
    After his daughter’s birth, he killed himself.
    By hanging in a room behind the bookshelf.

    Part 3:

    Chapter 7: The History of the Autumn People

    “The girl turns around looking surprised
    Her expression could not be disguised.
    “The old woman who died in the abbey was my mother, ”
    my son said, as his wife was to be in anger.
    And then he lightly kissed her lips
    As he was on his way to get a cup to have a sip
    Of wine
    “What would be supper for us to dine?”
    asks my son as he sat down
    and drinking the wine, as he later became a clown.
    I wanted to smack and yell
    Before someone rung the bell.
    Later that year, the Ashlars girl have gave birth
    To a little girl who was not her father’s worth.
    After his daughter’s birth, he killed himself.
    By hanging in a room behind the bookshelf.”
    This is what my grandma told me.
    Of course, I keep telling my mother that I see a woman
    who is in the pictures with her.
    Which she doesn’t believe me.
    The history of the Autumn people
    started back a few years before the Europeans were appearing.
    The Autumn people had good relations with the Indians.
    And then war broke out between the Europeans and the Indians.
    Of course, the Autumn people were on the Indians’ side of the battle.
    But the Indians and the Autumn lost that battle.
    Now the lineage is lost, just barely.
    I’m the last of the Autumn, acting like a Bedouin.
    From what I know about my father, he was a banker.
    For my mother’s stand point of view, my father looked ashy
    But there’s no pictures of him and kids at my school see me as a Bengal.
    According to legend, the Autumn people had powers from Ireland who were banning
    Them and some were barons
    And most were chieftains.
    This for them was the axel
    Of a turning point of a bramble.
    None of this makes any sense to me yet
    But right now I’m walking in snow that’s making me wet.
    I’m walking home from school
    And I had to sit on a barstool
    For detention.
    Man, I hate school and my classmates.
    My people aren’t in the textbooks and my teacher dictates
    That there were no such people called the Autumn.
    Like my life isn’t gruesome.
    This is the story of my fathom.

    None of this makes any sense to me yet
    But right now I’m walking in snow that’s making me wet.
    I’m walking home from school
    And I had to sit on a barstool
    For detention.
    Man, I hate school and my classmates.
    My people aren’t in the textbooks and my teacher dictates
    That there were no such people called the Autumn.
    Like my life isn’t gruesome.
    This is the story of my fathom.
    Now I’m living in Alaska
    With my mother.
    I have homework that the teacher wants
    Us to write about our family history.
    How I write about my family history if no one believes me?
    ‘Write what you will, ’
    I heard grandma’s voice in my head.
    As I tread along in the knee deep snow,
    I hear a whirring behind me and I turn to look
    To Billy on a snowmobile.
    He zooms past me drenching me in snow as if he were a cheetah.
    I’m no babbler
    But Billy daunts
    Very blindly
    On anything he could get his hands on to see.
    I like my Churchill.
    Until I go to bed.
    But to do the family history, I might just have to borrow
    Grandma if mother won’t bite the hook.
    I don’t think mother is stable.
    But then what do I know?
    All I do is learn like a gecko.
    I continue walking until I see a cabin
    That mother had bought from an ax man.
    I get near it until I smell fresh tomato rice bread.
    Mother makes the best in blood red.
    I race into the door feeling famished
    And asked mother if I could get some fished
    Seal soup and lamp chowder.
    She nods as I put my belongings at my alter.
    And there I sat eating dinner ‘til I had my fill
    Until I went to start my homework was I thrilled.

    Chapter 8: Knowing the Daughter

    Chapter 9: The Last Piece

    But then what do I know?
    All I do is learn like a gecko.
    I continue walking until I see a cabin
    That mother had bought from an ax man.
    I get near it until I smell fresh tomato rice bread.
    Mother makes the best in blood red.
    I race into the door feeling famished
    And asked mother if I could get some fished
    Seal soup and lamp chowder.
    She nods as I put my belongings at my alter.
    And there I sat eating dinner ‘til I had my fill
    Until I went to start my homework was I thrilled.
    There I saw a family tree of the Autumn.
    “Ok, grandma. I know you did this, ”
    I said, low enough for mother not to hear.
    There wasn’t an answer from grandma.
    I went to mother and asked,
    “Did you give me the family tree to go for the family history?”
    She nods without looking up from her book.
    “That Billy of yours came to tell me that you got into detention.
    And he told me about it and also your homework.
    He left 30 minutes before you showed, ” said mother, while still reading.
    “Billy is boredom, ”
    I said, sounding so amiss.
    I looked out the window and saw the snowy frontier,
    Big enough for an outlaw
    Who was masked.
    The snowy frontier gave me a shiver down my spine in site of a banshee.
    “So who was the crook:
    you or the woman who wanted the action?”
    I asked mother as a shadow came to lurk
    In her face while her eyes seems to be barking.
    “Your grandmother was, ”
    said my mother in a desperate cry.
    Then I saw the claws
    Of what took that little girl to espy.
    “Now I get why you wouldn’t tell me, ”
    I said in surprise.
    I wanted to know badly
    But knowing how much my mother’s demise
    For my grandmother but now I have the last piece
    Now I understand
    Of this timeless timepiece.
    That has been in generations to be spanned.
    I return to my room and I did my homework
    As the darkness came to lurk.
    Now our time in this story
    Is over with my history.

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