Critiques and Revision
(12/7/2014 3:49:00 AM)
Children of the Slums
Imagine waking up on a filthy, uneven floor -
light coming solely through the flimsy wooden wall.
Imagine trudging through the mud barefoot -
mud merged with remnants of God knows who.
Imagine breathing in thick layers of sooty dust -
the colors sullen, lifeless and dull.
Imagine smelling the scent of faeces and decay,
of diseases and of death every single day.
Imagine your belly gurgling with hunger and distraught,
sniffing glue - the only way to delude.
Imagine walking on rickety bridges -
a step amiss and drown you will in these murky watery ditches.
Imagine wearing the same old rags - all tattered and torn,
being beaten and battered, no rights of which to call your own.
Imagine having silly daydreams of going to school
but there's not a penny to spare - not even for a worn-out book.
But alas, imagine no more for such children exist,
with ghosts clouding their starry dreams
And death hanging heavy upon their tiny, little feet.
Gangadharan Nair Pulingat
(11/30/2014 9:09:00 AM)
Trees always interested by poets.
(11/30/2014 3:17:00 AM)
Trees Who Needs Them
Scottish pine and mountain ash, what scene could frame a finer dash as sunbeams danced among its cooling glade.
Romance etched upon the bark where lovers coyed and left their mark and men stepped out from where their youth had laid.
And oh! what mighty ships of past would sail had oak not made their mast, and was not the earth alas a smaller place.
Thus acorns seeded on the moor made fast the flag on distant shore, whence king and country ruled its native race.
Whose heart would ache from flight askew, if cupid had not crafted hew, for broken hearts do bear the greatest pain.
How sad would be the village green if men in white made not the scene, their calls aloud as willow took the strain.
Bland would be the vacant pie had nature blinked and fruit caught not its eye, but history brought the apple to the fore.
For had Newton in his search pondered life neath the birch the day would be no wiser than a snore.
Chippendale would ply not or teach the beauty that was sculptured beech and doubtless seek its offspring was well planted.
Cedar wood a nasal treat, maple floors that felt the beat, natures gift we should never take for granted
(11/28/2014 12:16:00 AM)
Flakes fell light against the black night,
she watched the flakes fall low
and crush beneath her heavy, wading feet.
With each step, she exhaled from her weary lips,
each breath, quicker than the last
composed shimmering elements,
that shone weak against
the misleading lights above.
She wished she could breathe.
Breathe out all her shame,
so that if it were, finally,
to relieve her lips and surface—
exposed among her darkened sight—
she might grasp it,
twist it and choke it,
between her wavering, chapped hands.
There, at its end,
holding onto nothing but itself,
it would purge its last
violent breath—suffocating within
her solitary, worldly grasp.
But, she thinks. She knows.
She could not exhale
this secret, searing fire or
expel it from her bitter, collapsing soul.
But, if she could attempt, finally,
to dig in deep below—
meet those lurid, eager voices, the
excesses of her dripping, whining soul—
greet them with baited affection,
greet them without conceit,
she could then, finally,
find herself within them.
When she does, finally,
fathom and not fear this great and
rousing courage she could, even now,
exhale, expel, or dig out this gorging sin—
escape it—at least
with a little of herself remaining,
breath in deeply, unclasp her hands,
embrace her dark and shrouding mass,
she could then, finally,
put it into something useful.
(11/15/2014 1:14:00 AM)
| Read 1 reply
Through the Wringer
Blind wanderer deep in foul territory.
The hazardous lonesome desire.
Seeking the reciprocal.
Satisfaction of a basic need.
Vulnerability secreted like blood oozing into waters of starving sharks.
Unsuspecting supply for vile subspecies.
The vampires, the tyrants, the cannibals, the parasites.
Deep lacerations from razor-sharp barbs.
Staggering inebriated around their hair-triggered land mines.
Horrid agony inflicted by medieval torture.
Desperate pleas for mercy.
The cold, blackened heart of nemeses yielding sadistic motives.
Burned and gassed.
Slowly impaled by twisting bayonets.
Remaining shrapnel lodged deep into the flesh.
Disintegrated ego in microscopic pieces.
Mind saturated and submersed in post traumatic stress.
The tattered carcass.
Left for dead.
Entrails unraveled, left to decompose.
Rancid, putrid organs exposed.
Picked clean by vultures, rodents, maggots.
An obscured, distant memory.
(11/13/2014 9:30:00 PM)
I have taken my time to leave reality;
Stepping out of the picture for more clarity.
I see the negative and positive connotation
Of a growing colossal human nation.
But every day we face utter annihilation.
Pride and prejudice will be the source of obliteration,
Everyone so self-absorbed; nothing they feel or see,
Always worried about, “Are the Four Horsemen coming for me?”
And when the gun’s residue leaves behind,
An afterthought of the moral mind,
I am reminded of what I love to do:
Reading the unconscious without a clue.
When those who have suffered the consequence,
Of a sword hanging over their conscience,
I hope someone or thing, whether it be me,
Will throw away the sword and set them free.
This all I have hoped, nothing has happened.
These diseases are just a way to control, to trap in
The innocent people of the human race.
I constantly wonder, “Who should I disgrace?”
The wish to live in a world in which
There is no fear to be a snitch.
To do right by the terms of the heart
Will provide the necessary part
Of the story
That will grant the world glory.
There is a fork in the fate, however.
To maneuver around it, one must be clever.
One is total obliteration
Where the nay-sayers smile with gratification.
The other one is not to ignore.
The lost finally wash up on the shore,
Those cast down receive pious remarks,
With harmony, will rise the lovely larks,
Lastly, though they won’t know it,
The Great Fuse shall be lit.
When the fire is gone and the world starts to cool,
Only moral shall rule.
Sadly, there can be no way to go.
Right or left, happiness no one will know.
So we keep moving forward with the idea in mind,
Of how we want to be, a person of which kind?
Keeping the idea of the shore and glory best,
If we keep climbing and trying we will be at rest.
Leonard G. Allmon
(11/4/2014 7:21:00 PM)
Maybe this belongs here...
We Are What We Are
Ladybug met Stinkbug on the garden path,
”He’s cute, ” she thought, “But he needs a bath.
If he meets my my friends, they’re sure to think,
That though he’s mine, It would be fine,
If he didn’t have a stink.”
They spent some time together, well over an hour,
She tried to talk about his smell, but he said, “Little Flower, You find my odor nasty, but you should know as well,
Though you are sweet, like dirty feet,
Is how I find your smell.”
They tried so hard to not offend, to overlook their scent,
That finally, it came to them, about what it all meant,
To change the other person, was not part of their plan,
For they realized, through many sighs, that
What you are, you can’t control, but what you do, you can,
The way you are born, you cannot change,
But your habits and actions, you can arrange
To not offend, or hurt, or bother.
So they promised each, as they nibbled a peach,
To gently honor and respect the other.
Leonard G. Allmon
Leonard G. Allmon
(11/4/2014 8:59:00 AM)
I've been digging into some old stuff by
Browning, et al, and I may have a case
of plagiarism against the bombastic fellow...
A work by Leigh Hunt,1784 - 1859, The Glove
And The Lions, is the basis for a rather lengthy
work by Browning, (The Glove) , who was born in
1812 and did not begin to publish until his mid-twenties
when he wrote a rather lengthy ramble, detailing
what Leigh Hunt had concisely (and entertainingly)
I am going to look a little further, and if it does
turn out that Browning scraped the sides of
Hunt's soup-bowl, then my estimation of the
much-lauded writer will cease to exist, and
he will be relegated to the nether-land of other
writers who take undue credit...
One such worthless POS that comes to mind
is Thoreau, who criticized and reviled the very
system upon which he depended for his own
IMO, practically any offspring of a diseased
garbage collector could write great things if
he did not have to slave and sweat for his
very existence, having it handed to him by
Leonard G. Allmon
(11/4/2014 8:53:00 AM)
Leonard G. Allmon
A Teacher’s work is summer rain to children’s fertile needs,
To foster blossoms, pure and sweet, where once there was but weeds,
And this is done, through love, by one, for small or minor gain,
But more to know you’ve given it, through suffering, through pain,
And only for the accolade, that’s known to you as one,
Who stayed the course, without remorse, to see the teaching done.
To know, full well, that time will tell, as years meld into years,
The child will grow, the child will know you understood its fears.
And then one day, you’ll hear the words, few person’s ears shall know,
“You were my inspiration, and you set my heart aglow,
I worked so hard because I knew that in me you believed,
Despite long hours, low pay and more, your guidance I received “.
A hug, a handshake, through the tears, you watch the child depart,
And know your chosen path has been rewarding in your heart,
From that day on, should anyone inquire, “What do you do?“
In truth you look them in the eye, accept your honor, due,
Head up, stand tall, you answer clear, with pride none can impeach,
There is no fear, your answer, pure, comes from the heart, “I Teach! “
(10/31/2014 8:18:00 AM)
He used to sit with his head in his hands and he would cry
she got a kick of ruining his life with her lies
he tried to laugh it off even though it is doing him harm
you can tell from the cuts on his arm
His dreams turned to dust
he was not sure who he can trust
all he wants is for someone to love him for who he is
not cast him aside and make fun of this
He sought a new set of dreams to reset his life
not wanting to end it with a knife
yet he knew not where to start
to repair the damage to his fractured heart
he left that evil girl behind
and a new existence he wanted to find
eventually he found a nice girl
her eyes were pretty and her skin like pearl
they connected right from the very start
and together they repaired his damaged heart
When he used to sit and cry
now together they sit and watch the night sky
they love each other for who they are
and in the heavens they are each other’s stars
Comment of the Day
- A Poem
Written by Adam M. Snow
What I see
beyond the horizon glow.
Beyond the hues of purple and gold.
Beyond the ...