Project Tag: poem

Out of the Womb of Time

Madonna of the Plains

out of the womb of Time they slide
peasants and kings, artisans and queens
murders, warriors, healers, peacemakers
the grandfathers and grandmothers
on whose shoulders we stand

they are with us, their spirits sensed
though unseen
their hearts are in our mouths
as they guard and guide

feet rooted in the mud of Earth
we drink the wine, eat the roots
and sing the songs we inherited
their sayings are our sayings
their voices are our voices
carried on breezes
like the music of cathedral bells
like the call of the muezzin
they chime and summon
they sum what came before

from their gnosis
whispered in the ear of silence
we learn: we are nameless but not lost
we too shall echo
shall be the shoulders
shall be the mothers and grandmothers
shall be the Hope and the Light
along the path . . .
. . . . beckoning

Originally published in Brooklyn Memories

© 2012, poem and photograph, Jamie Dedes

A Separate Peace

“I think this to myself even though I love my daughter. She and I have shared the same body. There is a part of her mind that is a part of mine. But when she was born she sprang from me like a slippery fish, and has been swimming away ever since. All her life, I have watched her as though from another shore.” Amy Tan, The Joy Luck Club

 sometimes …
near impossible to see past the manic crowds
or to lift our eyes to look at the wholesome
trees inscribing their calm upon the sky

sometimes …
we record our fears with writing utensils,
call them weapons, coloring the margins
of our books with the dry dust of martyrdom

sometimes …
the children use their pages to blot away their
mothers’ tears, turning backs on the old refrains,
hearing their own souls speak, deaf to their fathers

sometimes …
those children fell trees, transforming them
to paper and well-sharpened pencils, their lives
written in the manner of their own separate peace

“Everything has to evolve or else it perishes.” John Knowles, A Separate Peace

Originally published in Brooklyn Memories

© 2013, Jamie Dedes

Your Mother Is Always With You

Your Mother is always with You
    She’s the whisper of the leaves as you walk down the street.
    She’s the smell of certain foods you remember.
     She’s the flowers that you pick, of the perfume that she wore. 
She’s your breath in the air on a cold winter’s day.
    She is the sound of the rain that lulls you to sleep,
She’s in your laughter, crystalized in every tear,
She’s the place you came from, your first home.
    She’s the map you follow with every step you take.
    She’s your first love, your first friend, even your first enemy,
    nothing on earth can separate you.
    Not time … Not space … Not even death!
2019 artwork ©Isadora DeLaVega
Poem Excerpt: “Your Mother is always with you!” © TXu2-148-410
By: Deborah R Culver (Deborah R Force-Shy-Gerlach-Culver) is a poet, writer and lyricist with many other poems. Her works in progress include an autobiography with the same name as the poem, “Your Mother Is Always With You”, and novels.. Connect with Deborah R Culver debbydolly111@gmail.com

Tribute

Where are the prayers of the mothers?

Only Heaven could know,

Tell me oh Lord

Where they are stored

In a spring, that in Eden flows?

 

Where are the prayers of the mothers?

Prayers that daily ascend,

During ring around rosie

Or making babe cozy,

Urgent prayers plead end to end.

 

Where are the hopes of the mothers?

Hopes that somewhere soar?

Hopes there in the heart

To quickly impart

To a child forevermore.

 

Where are the prayers of the mothers?

Prayers so silently pled?

They’re shining at midnight,

Glowing in moonlight,

Lighting our way ahead.

© 2019, Sharon Frye

Those Before Me

Those who have gone before me-

My mother and her mother too,

Have left their mark upon me

In all I think and do.

 

Times that I remember

From earliest youthful dreams,

Were molded by each moment

I spent with both my queens.

 

If I could leave an impact

Or a treasured legacy,

I pray it is no less-

Than this one left to me.

 

A legacy, so sterling,

And a testament of care,

Leads me and guides me

Just like a whispered prayer.

© 2019, Sharon Frye

Letter to My Mother: The Only Inhabitant of Heaven

Mother,
let me build your heaven!

You would be a butterfly
caressed by the sun
and the snake frozen by your sight
would lose his poison
The entire view would borrow its color
from the rainbow of your wings
The rest you should find it into my palm
there you would tuck in with my soul
I will be the guardian of your sleep
For nourishment I would serve you my eyes
my tears you’ll drink to calm the thirst …

Yes, mother, with your permission,
I will build you the heaven!

© 2019, Iulia Gherghei

My Mother’s

“Art creates the dream of life“

Is that the season?
The leaves are hitting the silent windows
and some roots of trees are creaking,
but I am a dream.
I do not recognize the colors,
when the sun of that town
without time shelters me like Mum.
Which flowers shall I gift to you?
I am not a saint – I cannot revive you.
I cannot even grief.

To gift to you – a last flower.

© 2019, bogpan (Bozhidar Pangelov) 

Conflict

Mother walked into a coffin

full of snow and ice,
I should have told her

January’s not good for dying.
On nights like this air clots in hindsight,
I start a fire in her grave
watch winter burn in a blaze.
She warms her feet under my spleen,
rearranges my ribs not knowing
where to land,
as if walking through mine fields
stepping in footprints of others.

Can the woman fit in my skin as I age ?

She had church
thousands of them tearing
through stone groin of hills,
does it matter that prayer is stale
on my lips?

She had trust,
same desert swallowed our past,
she shook off the sand,
it fell like flakes of doubt and regret on my hands.

She knew love,
it filled her bones till they cracked,
I love with my heart behind barbed wire.

My voice paces in our language
between memories hanging like bats
on clotheslines,
clashing with a bright yellow dress
I remember from somewhere,
and the moonlight softening the lines
blurred in my chest.

A tender moment I chew and spit in a song,

lyrics scrape the only thing left alive

against my cheek,

this longing rising inside a sigh
where she owns all of this silence
crumbling on my tongue.

© 2019, Silva Zanoyan Merjanian

The Apple and the Tree

I like to think humanity is a bunch of apples

We have flavor

Happiness, sorrow, glee, anger, silliness, love

We have sour greens, juicy yellows, and sweet reds

 

Now as siblings of humanity where do apples come from

Trees

Tall, strong, expansive trees with their branches flailing about

Now trees in fact can hold many different kinds of apples

Ones with love, ones with music, ones with sports, ones with sadness, ones filled with life

Trees nurture these fruits with all of the heart, soul, and mind

Filling each apple with peace, love, and joy

 

Humanity is a relationship

An experience of nurturing from trees to their apples

You are my tree

You are my brother’s tree

You have nurtured us

What do you have now

Well a bunch of fruits living in your house of course

 

Happy Mother’s Day

Crazy Fruit Tree

© 2019, Kennedy Stewart; illustration courtesy of Jean Beaufort, Public Domain Pictures.net

Kennedy Stewart is a young adult who takes great pride in his long, ginger hair. He is a graduate of Woodinville High School and is currently working towards his passion of gaming and music. His favorite musical is Hamilton and one of his favorite bands is Queen, but he loves all music. He hopes to be able to tell the stories of games through composing music. He loves animals and is currently plotting to adopt this little one with his brother.

 

Mothers’ Day: Different Thoughts

What Greater Expectations than Great Expectations,
Miss Havishams’ so many, embedded secluded, on dusty
wooden gilded thrones, behind cobwebbed curtains,
Majestic Marvels, First Created, Sacred, now rest transfixed
in false reprehension, languishing in darkened streets
As scattered clouds scan terrestrial to celestial dimensions
blinking intermittent flashes only to find twisted torments
blood filled swamps, whirring swarms of discontents, amidst seas
of colorfully placed flowers ; Supreme Sopranos burnt to ashes.

Turning Around She Thought
O Woman’ What Mothers’ Day Means to You

created sacred beguiled abused
ordered bound accused excused
what woman’s day means to her
she thought…

what nights will make her scream
day is work, no escape
night ‘love? no! rape..
fears and fears of rape
drugged missing real or fake?

should she think of women famous?
those who are seen on history pages?

should she think of those unseen
pushed kicked thrown in cages?

mothers and daughters in frustration
yet manage homes and serve nations

should she honor the saintly ones
who were obedient ordained

should she mention those half
widows, widows of genocide

chained enslaved in perpetual pain?
or those maids forced to labor
or those who hold kids while
parents dine and perhaps wine’

whom should she call ‘mine’
standing serving morn til nine-
and there are families royal
to the people crown so loyal

loved honored seen by all
that is not all…..

so many names graceful glorified
history remembers all sacrificed
she thought…cannot pick one or two
one in white, covered one in blue-
East or West old or new…Oh
Athena’ Wise One ! Help’ if only I knew

© 2019, Anjum Wasim Dar

Keeping Quiet

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

For once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for one second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.
Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.

from Extravagaria (translated by Alastair Reid, pp. 27-29, 1974)

– Pablo Neruda

There’s a Chance

“There’s a chance peace will come.” Melanie Safka

I. works at a factory in Kazan that makes parts for shells. This is how she supports her family. She lives in peace.

M. works for a state-owned company in Isfahan that makes electronics for guided missiles. This is how he supports his family. He lives in peace.

S. lives in different places in Idlib. She’s originally from Damascus, where she worked in a pharmacy before her husband was killed in a bombing. Her son made it to Germany, her daughter is with her. They stay with friends and try to survive. She would love to live in peace.

If these three met somewhere, they might be friends and would definitely live in peace with each other.

Es wäre möglich

I. arbeitet in einer Fabrik in Kasan, die Teile für Granaten herstellt. Damit ernährt sie ihre Familie. Sie lebt in Frieden.

M. arbeitet für ein staatliches Unternehmen in Isfahan, das Elektronik für Lenkflugkörper herstellt. Damit ernährt er seine Familie. Er lebt in Frieden.

S. lebt an verschiedenen Orten in Idlib. Sie stammt ursprünglich aus Damaskus, wo sie in einer Apotheke arbeitete, bevor ihr Mann bei einem Bombenanschlag getötet wurde. Ihr Sohn hat es nach Deutschland geschafft, ihre Tochter ist bei ihr. Sie leben bei Freunden und versuchen zu überleben. Sie würde gerne in Frieden leben.

Wenn sich diese drei irgendwo treffen würden, könnten sie Freunde sein und würden definitiv in Frieden miteinander leben.

© 2019, poem,  Johannes Beilharz

The Love in the Heart

I built a huge heart

Shelter for all the people of world

In it, sins vanish,

colors blend,

languages melt down.

You can read in all directions:

Long live Love,

Long live Peace.

Where flowers don’t need to be watered,

Where bodies want kisses and hugs,

Where every cumulus above heads scintilates,

Where souls are not held by chains.

© 2019, Faruk Buzhala 

The Way of Blessing

still … at last …
I find myself
in this moment
a thousand madnesses away
from the person
I’d thought I’d have-a-go
at turning myself into …
once upon a time

the air is fresh
with frost so soft
it hues the skyscape
to every gentleness of blue
that man or miracle
has ever rendered
in and under heaven

the nuggets of self-knowledge
laboriously gathered along
my mazed and muddled journey
fascinate in retrospection …
for the course
was seldom sure
and the diverting path
more apt to interest
and enthrall

to have come to this
without much yield to show
from grand design or driven effort …
is strange fortune

for as it turns …
I feel myself good and comfortable
at the sight of my own breath …
greatly pleased to be alive
in gladness … having gleaned
that peace and splendor … such as this …
surely, must be blessings

© 2019, poem and photograph, Wendy Bourke

Righteous Path

I happened upon an old rerun of the 60’s TV series ‘Star Trek’ a couple of nights ago. How depressing it was to take that cinemagraphic stroll, down memory lane. Ostensibly an adventure series, Gene Roddenbury, the show’s creator, intended the program to showcase morality tales; allegories of modern day realities. The protagonists would proceed in their dealings, peacefully – with altruism and acceptance – thus demonstrating the very best of what humankind is capable of. The Starship Enterprise’s voyages played out in stories that championed the principles of universal liberty, rights, and equality.

Antecedent to the 1969 Apollo 11 lunar landing, the show seemed to herald an era when human understanding and technological advances would come together on a path imbued with more righteousness, than any path that had ever been trod before. When Neil Armstrong stepped onto the surface of the moon and uttered the words: ” … one small step for man”, how fervently we ‘earthlings’ wanted to believe … we were – at least – making small steps, in that good direction.

The 20th century marked more technological changes than all the other centuries in the history of this planet, combined. Having been born in 1951 – midway through the 20th century – I took my early footsteps in what is, arguably, one of the most fascinating, progressive, dynamic – and yes: turbulent, monstrous and challenging periods, in our earth’s history. Those words ” … “, have resonated with me, throughout the days of my life … often beating – like a metaphor – to forward progress … and often beating – like a metaphor – to backward regression. I remind myself that my lifetime is but, a grain of sand, in the sands of time. I live – and will die – in the hope that many … many … many … small steps will, eventually, find their way … to that righteous path.

on the beach
the shifting sands
erase my footprints
as I walk
to water’s edge

note: scientists believe that the earth has existed for approximately 4.5 billion years.

© 2019, Wendy Bourke, words and photo: Boots on the Sands of Jericho Beach, Vancouver, BC

Ethnic Cleanser

Removes unsightly
grease and dirt of people
who spoil your landscape.

Cleans as it polishes, replaces
their awful smell with fresh fragrances.
Their profane beliefs with fresh air.
Their noisy children with heavenly quiet.
Our history with revised pages.
Preserves our pure culture.

They are an infection that will be eradicated.
Their unmarked graves forgotten.

Ethnic cleanser for a cleaner society.
Buy into this great product.
Popularly known as genocide.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

A Wealth

 of mankind

in a pile of naked emaciated bodies

flopped over one another,

People as things

rugs, blankets on a market stall

elaborate designs or plain

to put beside a fireplace.

 

Riches beyond avarice

in faces pinched into skulls.

Concave stomachs, prominent ribs

I had only ever seen in Christian Aid

adverts, famine victims.

 

Beneath quiet fields and woodland

their bones move years after

the weight of soil thrown over them.

the dead and disappeared move

towards their discovery

in shallower ground. Time

walks over their graves

building motorways and railways.

Grief takes time in small steps,

one softly after another.

We walk on unremembered bones.

A forgotten treasure.

© 2019, Paul Brookes

I’m Just About

I’m just about

managing between the barricades

My kids play between sniper targets.

I fetch the shop through broken
buildings perforated by gunshot,

past cars jammed across streets.

I’m just about managing between regimes.

Previously published in I Am Not A Silent Poet.

© 2019, Paul Brookes