TTSA interfaith poem , dubbed the "trinity Poem"

Look to the North,
Look Skyward,
and you will see,
The red roofs ,
of St. Benedict's
Monastery.

And from the evergreen northern mountains,
From the crucifix adorned tower of Benedict’s abbey.
one can look down upon the land of the Trinity,
The sweet caroni plains to the south,
The Calm Gulf of Paria to the west,
and when the sun dies over the western horizon,
you can see the blue water,
and the blue sky,
turn blood red.

Perhaps Christ saw red,
as he looked up to the heavens,
The sun dying over the western horizon,
Dying the sky red.
Christ bade rock headed Peter ,
To look skyward too,
For through the red,
Christ saw Blue Infinity.

And he taught Peter ,
How to speak to Infinity,
When he said
" Our Father,
Who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be thy name"

And when Christ ascended ,
into the fleecy clouds,
Perhaps Jesus then,
became one ,
with the eternal sky,
one with his Father.

And when Peter ,
looked skyward,
Perhaps he saw infinity's face,
as Christ bade them farewell.

Infinity and St. Benedict ,
are good friends,
as you might have heard,
Poisoned cups shatter ,
when offered to Benedict,
Poisoned bread is plucked,
from Benedict's hands ,
By a Raven,
who then takes the foul deed,
Skyward.




In the year 1947,
the gods put the fire ,
of devotion into a man,
name Siewdass Sadhu .

Sadhu saw god's home by the sea,
and with fire in his hands ,
He moved the earth,
Stone by Stone,
Brick by brick,
he built God's temple on the seashore,
On the Plantation Master's land.

Massa Tate saw God's work being done,
and wanted no part of it,
Massa destroyed God's home on earth,
and cast Sadhu's work into the sea,
and sent Sadhu himself to a jail cell,
a hole in the ground.

But captivity did not snuff out,
Siewdass Sadhu's flames,
when he got out of that hole,
he went back to the sea,
and prayed to the gods,
and saw their true design.

Their true home was in the sea.

So Sadhu's hand's touched the soil once more,
and he moved the earth ,
Stone by stone,
Brick by Brick,
Bucket by Bucket of earth,
as his life passed him by.



Blue Shiva,
Came down from mount Kailasa ,
just to see one man,
move the earth.

Mother Ganga, left
Shiva's hair ,
Left the comfort ,
of her River Bed,
In India,
Crossed the Indian Ocean,
Turned the Cape Horn of Africa,
and endured the middle passage,
Just so that her waters,
could gently kiss,
the stones that Sadhu moved,
And bear witness ,
To Sadhu's devotion

Till at last , after 25 years.
Sadhu bridged the divide between Land and sea,
Man and God,
and his temple was complete.

Today you can walk from Trinidad,
into the gulf of Paria,
To visit God’s home in the sea,
Blue water lapping against the rocks all around you,
waves crashing on your left , and on your right,
but as long as your path is straight,
You will meet the gods at the end of that seaborne journey.

To the east we now turn,
back to the days before Columbus was born
Before King Henry Split the Christian church in two,
Before the Pope split the earth down the Tordesillas line,
Amidst the Arabian sands,
A city called Mecca rose,
And within these great walls,
Rose a man named Muhammed .

Muhammed wandered the earth,
looking for meaning in life,
searching for truth,
He came upon a cave,
And when he did enter,
The angel of the lord came to him,
He was blinded by Infinity’s glory,
And the angel Gabriel did bid him ,
To write down God’s words.

Muhammed went down to Mecca,
and for decades he fought ,
till at least he defeated the Quayish ,
who sought to destroy him ,
and burn god’s words to ash.

Then Mecca did become ,
God’s holy city ,
And the black stone in the heart of the city,
Was venerated by Muslims,
As a sign of God on earth,
They say the stone was once pure white ,
In the days of Adam and Eve before man fell,
but it was lost and blackened,
by the indiscretions of man.

It took more than a millennium for muhammed’s word,
To cross the Arabian sands,
Climb the Kashmir pass,
Into India,
and from India,
Muhammed’s word was carried by ships,
around the Horn of Africa,
across the middle passage,
Till it reached the Caribbean sea.

From Benedict’s mount, one can see,
dozens of green minarets,
Decorated with the crescent moon and star,
facing eastward , so that,
every follower of the prophet muhammed,
Can find his way to mecca,
As he prostrates himself before God,
And prays to one day make the journey,
Across Arabian sands,
To the black rock that god left behind,
For man to find.


Trinidad and Tobago is triply blessed,
as Columbus did name Trinidad after the holy trinity when he saw,
3 green hills of equal height ,
He was reminded of the three persons of God ,
God the father , the creator, who art in heaven.
God the son, the word made flesh who came down to earth,
And God the holy spirit , who is found both in fire,
and in the cleansing waters of Baptism.

Trinbago is triply blessed to be a land,
where every creed can find an equal place,
Benedict’s monks found their place on the mountain,
Close to their father who art in heaven,
Sadhu found his place in the blue sea,
The waters of which perhaps once ran through the Ganges,
into India’s Ocean.
And the followers of islam , who seek to find Mecca in their hearts,
Submit to god as best they can,
They find their place prostrate upon the earth,
Lowering the crown of their head,
to the ground that god made.

Trinbago is triply blessed to be a land,
where every creed and race,
can find an equal place.

In the shadow of my 16 year old self

I havent written a good poem in months , due to a mixture of lack of inspiration and lack of time now with law school . Being in a happy relationship kills your muse if your poetry feeds off sadness , not that its a bad thing , my poetry has generally always been in flux , changing as i read new poets and writers and as i grow .
I seem to have lost that command of words and simple turn of phrase that i had 16-18, its still there as i can think of a single line or two but it doesnt flow together as it once did : The following poem 'Sigh' was written around age 18 , the poem after it frost and flame around 20 , you can barely tell if its the same poet who wrote both.


I have been trying to move more into prose , as i hate being confined to rhyme schemes and meters , and i'v always wanted to be a storyteller. When i hammer out something slightly amazing in prose i shall post it...

Lastly : my hit counter has logged over 10,000 visitors, most of the hits in the last few months , i set up google ads to hopefully get some revenue out of my potential fans (assuming it isnt just a bunch of robots trolling the web to spam random blogs) . Please click any ad that interests you for my sake :p .

As before all poems are my intellectual property , but feel free to use them for greeting cards or to woo someone etc. I sanction any non commercial use of my poetry , please write my name along with the poem .





Sigh
A sigh a sigh,
A sign that feelings,
Inward lie ,
A tear , a tear,
A wound that cupid
Tore inward here,



Frost and flame- For a lover leaving
My love for you burned too hot,
I have charred away my former self,
the walls I built to keep out the four lettered insults of life are gone,
you have burnt me down.

I lie immolated,
your sacrifice.

I pray my fire can keep you warm on those cold winter nights,
I pray the flame can burn away the shame- I cannot afford a ticket to London to see you,
and I fear that I may die if I cannot bathe in your scent daily.

Every time I hear over nourished children call out for the mother country,
every English word,
pierces my core,
scabs of frost form around my heart.

The flame also burns into rage,
but I keep it from hurting you,
I douse anger's flame with my own tears,
their salty dew has not fallen in years,
For you I kindle and tame my flame,
it claws at my existence.

I feel frost growing in me, the temptation to lock my heart shaped box to save what is left,
But I rather a broken heart than an empty one,
I rather be frost-bitten by the cold north than not have tried,
I rather cross the Atlantic bare footed,
swallow the seas whole,
and drown a thousand times than give up.

There is some comfort in being sad, I rather be sad for you
than know only the transient joys of solitude.
My memories of you are my comfort,
My solace.

When you cannot see on those dreary Northern days,
the sun hiding his face from the cold,
Let the memory of tropical light guide you,

Like the memory of lying on a riverbank, side by side,
Birds singing, water laughing, Bamboo cackling,
Two hearts content, warm and at peace,

Remember how the purple bougainvillea spied ,
as we sat on your front porch,
sharing secret lives that we told no one else,
secrets as many as the indigo petals, and as thorny.

Remember being surrounded by green mountains,
looking down at the fertile Caroni, the concrete jungle, the grassy plain,
up on Saint Benedict's mount
-close to heaven
Remember when I whispered to you those three longest words,
" I love you".

But now you are leaving,
You are passing through a veil,
I cannot follow the celerity of your angel winged feet,
I keep a lock of your angel hair, its magic to bring you back to me,
I keep your love letters, our memories,
their magic to always keep you close to me.

When the cold British air hits you-
I wish my affection to burn like the tropical sun and warm your heart.
When the cold loneliness hits you
- know that I am distilling the lifeblood of my heart into another love letter,
for your hazel eyes only,
When we fight, remember my anger is not for you,
but at the 10,000 miles between us,
and when we kiss again,
remember the hardship that made it taste ever sweeter.

DISCLAIMER

EVERYTHING PUBLISHED HERE IS THE INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF JONATHAN BHAGAN AND IS SUBJECT TO COPYRIGHT LAW .


I ENCOURAGE YOU TO USE MY POETRY FOR PERSONAL USE I.E. VALENTINES DAY CARDS ETC. , BUT PLEASE POST MY NAME AS AUTHOR , AND THE WEBSITE .

ANY USE OF THIS POETRY IN SUCH A WAY THAT MAKES MONEY , OR EXPOSES IT TO THE MASS MEDIA REQUIRES MY PERMISSION , ELSE I'LL FIND YOU AND SUE YOU!

EMAIL : DISCIPULI@GMAIL.COM

Updated whenever i feel like , check back once every few weeks.


Insomnia
Insomnia is infectious ,
she spreads her legs ,
teasing you with the
hidden beauty of the long dark night,
inviting you to witness the secret lives of others ,
lovers whispering sweet nothings to each another,
It makes you long for something bitter.

And you realise that you waste half your life in dreamless sleep.

Being restless is fun once you have company.


Insomnia is contagious,
She spreads her sin from person to person,
Makes you feverish and dumb,
leaves you with bags under your eyes
and nothingness



And you realise from all this that love gives of itself without asking anything in return ,

Love is its own reward ,

even if loving an insomniac gives you nothing,


maybe there is beauty in nothingness


I used to dream , my dreams meant nothing.








I killed my Muse
I killed my muse,
Because she hurt me too much,
Never answered my calls but
would try to take advantage of me,
late at night while i write .

I still hear her music
in my dreams,
beckoning me from the corner of my eye
to return to a world where Romantic delusions
still paint the sky.

Hearing her name would make me feel sick,
but i enjoy her music:-
my musing
cause i need it for my writing.

I still long for her venom.

What if the sweetest thing in the world would kill you after just a sip,
Doest it stop you from wanting her?



Cynicism
The funny thing about poetry,
is that it doesn't allow you to be,
A cynic,
you are forced to give things significance,
that don't deserve any,
to rhyme significance into things,
like death and breath,
both parts of life ,
there is nothing special about dying,
any pain associated comes from the loss of a bond,
not a life.

Yet you are forced to rhyme in time,
So that you can get awarded points,
by that philistine ,
whom you hope to make money off of,
(i mean you)



Tradgedy

Tradgedy to the Tragic :
like water to dry earth
and brown grass
- renewing what once was ,
like flame to the coal
- bringing warmth and purpose,
like warmth to the cold,
like a blanket to the naked
begger .

''How tragic''
you might say ,
I see tradgedies every day,
it doesn't bother me :
Tradgedy makes an entertaining play,
and i get to see it for free
and its funny if you think of it ,
comedy and tradgedy
are the same thing
one minus death and suffering,
you can laugh at both
when you realize :
it all rhymes .

( imagery partly from King Lear and Hamlet)

Beauty

To me, beauty is,
any aspect of a thing that
brings pleasure ,
a pleasing face,
or pleasing words
that deserve to be thanked .

While Beauty lies in pleasing ,
Please is a word you don' hear,
too often ,
and pleasure is a perverse thing,
you find it on sale in powdered form,
in picture books ,
and at the side of the road late at night.

Pleasure is cheap
but without beauty
i think it isn't worth having,
because :
such a thing has no memory ,
No meaning ,
its really nothing,
as it doesn't last
(while this poem might be on beauty, it's really philosophy)

Post

Sonnet :(inspired by ‘you know your right’)
She hates the way I say her name,
Dancing around my affections,
Drowning me in her picture frame,
Chocking out deep inflections,
She just wants to love herself,
I just want to learn to dream,
She makes me forget myself,
Burying me again in dream,
She takes away all the pain,
I forget what it means to be
Making me want it back again,
I like the sea,
She likes the sky,
But it never rains .

For an Anna

Anna is that,
simple joy,
you get from eating ,
a ripe banana ,
sweet and yellow,
mellow ,
joyful,
anna

Burst of Creativity

Lines of prose running away from my pen,
I'm jealous , whats your name?
random burst of spontaneous creativity,
a poem it is not,
phone rings,
I'm disturbed,
this is the last line,
I forget ,
I forgot .

Flowers and Feelings

Flowers beauty and feelings,
are such things ,
transient :- not lasting long,
burning for a brief moment,
ultra violet flame ,
then falling into oblivion.

If you see a flower that you desire,
quickly pluck it ,
and steal its fire,
by tomorrow it could be gone ,
and , even if you take it today,
remember , fire burns out,
beauty doesn't' last,
ultra violet petals fade ,
to grey , pale purple,
yellows dull,
reds die,
ay! My flower Is falling .

I actually set a rose on fire
I cut a rose from her stem,
and left her on my table,

For a few days

Her red withered to brown,

But she kept all her petals .

I lit a candle,
and gave her back her fire,

Burning reds,

Consuming yellow,

And bluish immolation,

Consuming each delicate petal

Till all turned to black

And she crumbled .

Its better to burn out than to fade out

And that’s an eternal truth

Writing during chemistry.. chemistry allusions

My lady’s made of stardust ,

Fallen from the sky,

She’s the stuff of diamonds,

Lustrous sparkle in her eye ,
Sea salt sweeten her skin,

Chocalatey vanillin,
metal red of
mother earth,
marks the spot of her birth .

Dignity (written for a competition)

Dignity
Dignified
That Deified
most belied of words
my esteem for me is what matters .

Dignity :

its Intrinsic : Something you are born with
not a Deified lie to worship

like popularity , or money .
money buys friends and stuff to keep you high
but not respect for the singular I (yourself)

Dignity :
has no price ; its free,
as long as you learn to love yourself
you're valuable
dignified
Deified

(cause regular rhyme can get cheesy , and I'm lactose intolerant , i use free verse)

This is free verse
I use it to explain
Things so that
Anyone can understand
onto the topic at hand :
Dignity

Some say Dignity
is a God given
endowment
Since all men (and women)
are created equal
we all have it :
the ability to be
dignified

That's why I s
Deified : we're all

made with a touch
of Divinity
Dignity
is realising
that fact

This means that
a prostitute is as
dignified as
the President ( Pope , Prime Minister , or other P word)
while circumstance
dictates how everyone
treats you
it doesn't mean
a prostitute (or other pariah)
can't have
Dignity

So in Conclusion
Dignity is
Intrinsic ( you're born with it)
as long as
you can have
Self Respect
Self love
Self esteem
(and all that stuff)
you can realise
your Self worth
your dignity .

Lines written during chemistry..
falling on love.

Love doesn't' fall,
it hangs
on that wall,
in the back of our minds,
its easy to find if your looking,
cobwebby and musty ,
but still lovely

love is to be fallen upon,
and fallen into,
such a heavy thing,
falling on anyone,
would hurt!

For a sixteenth Birthday

sixteen times i'v ran out of rhymes,
But the love keeps on giving,
So i'm giving you something true,
what you mean to me




Beautiful
My beautiful prose,
cannot give justice,
to a rose,
red,
in her blushing bloom.

I have not ,
the dewy perspiration,
to pen a single sonnet,
but her beauty be,
divine inspiration.
Enough ,
to wipe me blank.

Butterfly

Butterfly ,
flittering ,
flattering
fluttering,
falling,
flying,
dying .

Why does she have to die?

Why can’t beauty fly,
for all eternity ?

Because
truth be told ,
all must die.

in dying,
others get room to fly,
and a few of us,
might achieve,
immortality .

(this poem was published in TSP's december edition 2007 , meant to be understood by a 12 year old , don't like it much myself but putting it up due to good reception )

Seperation
We'r separated by a gulf of self righteous lies,
Whenever you don't want to talk ,your battery dies,
Perish the trust in our eyes,

All that's left is conciet,
As far as the sky is over the earth,
the two that never will meet ,
So we together lie, in a bed of thorny deceit,
We wait for the rain, For the sky to shower,
his affections upon his bride ,
and her to be fruitful , to loose her thorns,
Blossom once again,
and stay at his side .



Poem
Bottles break upon my roof at night,
thrown by angry, piss eyed addicts ,
high on insecurities .
My yard is full of shattered glass,
nobody plays upon my grass .








Mellow
You'd think for once,
a life without problems,
would make me happy,
happy but not happy enough,
Just a mellow mess of mediocrity,
nothing nagging away at my mind,
nothing to keep me up at night,
Just a sickly mellow .

The truth is ,
life without problems,
is a four lettered word,
and your' better off cursed ,
in any other way.

Throw away your salt,
your sugar and your spices,
your life is bland ,
no flavour ,
Just that sickly mellow.

poem: for the girl I have yet to meet
Your eyes like the peace of night,
So dark , yet so bright,
Your hair a silk,
of which I would make my bed,
your hands so delicate,
I wish to hold them,
all night.

Smelter : written in 2 minutes for some girls CS ia.

Smelt this

Cut down my mango tree,
Take my land away from me,
Put me in a 'mixed community',
So your pocket will fill with money.

You can't eat foil,
But it can eat you,
Take a way your home,
Poison your children,
Forget about me,
Keep your foil.

Bring me a day,
When the sun rises,
And i can greet it ,
With hope,
Not regret.

Chocolate sprinkles

Did I eat?
I'm a donut ,
With chocolate,
In sprinkles ,
And icing ,
I'm a fever,
That passes from person ,
To person,
That everyone gets over,
I'm the feelings,
You don't have words for,
I'm the self expression,
You always wanted,
And always have,
I'm the question ,
With no answer,
Just an end,
After you forget,
After you,
Walk out.


Sonnet :(inspired by ‘you know your right’)
She hates the way I say her name,
Dancing around my affections,
Drowning me in her picture frame,
Chocking out deep inflections,
She just wants to love herself,
I just want to learn to dream,
She makes me forget myself,
Burying me again in cream,
She takes away all the pain,
I forget what it means to be
Making me want it back again,
I like the sea,
She likes the sky,
But it never rains .

Pollution rants
Father sky upon his seat,
in his orb of air,
Looks down on Mother Earth,
and her aged sphere,
cracked and beaten is she,
without mortal care.


Every year , I see the mountains more bare,
More naked,
Sun beats down upon its bare skin,
Making it browner than it has been,
Tanning out the richness of green.

We wait for the rains to come again,
To wash away our naked disdain,
But there will always be that,
Ever brown stain ,
That overflows into the roads ,
Browning out the streets .

Poem
Hope ,
That luminous beacon,
Ever shining on the horizon,
Ever distant,
But the would be pilgrim trudges on,
Towards the city of god, paradise ,
Redemption,
Or whatever sugary figment of mind's allusion ,
Beckons , like ripe fruit .
Riper yet the promise of hope,
With each passing moment,
Despair would rot sweetness ,
Till sweet make sickly,
But in the core ,
Seeds of hope remain,
Ready to spring anew

Poem
Bliss is the child of ignorance ,
One cannot be blissful ,
And perceive the depth of reality,
Without choking ,
On the stench of the truth .
The flower of truth ,
Gives the bittersweet scent ,
That perfumes the death of the faithful ,
But its thorns prick the fingers,
And incarnadine the world ,
With the blood of its victims .









Her touch
The feeling of soft sheets upon my bare skin,
Reminds me of her touch,
Gentle and tender .
The whispering of the wind in the Trees ,
Echoes her voice ,
As soothing as silence .
Her Laughter,
Sweet and melodious ,
As a running stream .
Her flowing form ,
Daubs the cheek of beauty red .
Jealousy envies the supple brush ,
And deeper crimson ,
That did paint this lustrous image .
I too luster at perfection ,
Wishing that I , poor I ,
Would be blessed


Poem
Man is a hunter,
Trying to catch,
The ever fleeing moment,
Time slips through his fingers ,
As if he tried to grasp,
A shaft of light

Friday seems an eternity away,
But it was only yesterday,
Saturday comes ,
To throw you,
Into Sunday's open arms ,
But when you awake ,
Monday's blinding sun offends the eye,
Leading the way to a new week ,
Of bondage .

Prose upon politics, in verse
The night steals in,
and sleep embezzles our time
by giving us foolish dreams ,
in exchange for half our lives.

Ere midnight comes ,
the robber strikes ,
timeliness would call him ,
''midnight-robber'' ,
but he also steals from us at midday.

His coat embelished ,
with the sharp, blood trimmed flower ,
and the crimson dying sun ,
like metaphors for our present and future ,
blood upon blood .


He carries a silver dagger ,
and a blind club ,
but needs only his tongue,
and our stupidity .

The promise he makes ,
is of a vision,
of a golden future,
of prosperity ,
but he takes our ebony,
and builds himself a palace ,
in our garden.

Poem
Nothing is free,

Especially not time,

Every second steals your life away,

Never to bring it back .

The only justice is ,

That sometimes,

Time comes cheaply,

Hours fly by,

And life is made ,

A little more valuable,

And the thief,

A little less sinister.

If you are awake,

I'm thinking of you,

If you aren't ,

I hope your dreaming of me,

Or at least at peace .

Pay me attention
Pay me attention !

Just a look in my direction,

just so that I could see,

The color of your eyes,

And know if ,

It matches how I feel,

When you look,

Elsewhere .

You needn't pay me ,

If I could buy it ,

With clumsy words

And a crooked smile,

But I fear you've sold all

To someone else,

I fear having to wait ,

In that long , dreaded line,

Only to be turned away

Poem :- To a friend, a brother , a mother
In you I lost myself,

I had failed my eyes,

But you gave me reason to see.

You spoke,

And my tongue pronounced a litany in reply.

I sought death in sleep,

And you trod upon my waking

And helped me to dream again.

The August air
The gentle whisperings that float through the summer air,

Infect your senses with a new symptom ,

Of coming hope ,

The promise of freedom ,

The appeal of life ,

Flowing out just for you .

Warm , Dry sweetness wafts you away ,

To the land where cares are left behind ,

That transient place for four fortnight lives ,

Only to bring you happiness .

Fishes
Fishes in dishes ,

Make wishes ,

Do you wish ,

To be a fish

In a dish

With my wish?

Is a bowl a dish?

Ask the fish!





poem
Pain cannot be touched ,

yet it touches us all,

it is bitter ,

yet lacks flavour...

it cannot be seen ,

but we see it everywhere ,

as intangible as it is ,

its more real than anything else .

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First Post !

Everything published here is the intellectual property of Jonathan Mario Bhagan , any reproduction requires my permission , unauthorized reproduction means i SUE YOUR ASS!

Discipuli@gmail.com

Insomnia (first of 2009)

Insomnia is infectious ,
she spreads her legs ,
teasing you with the
hidden beauty of the long dark night,
inviting you to witness the secret lives of others ,
lovers whispering sweet nothings to each another,
It makes you long for something bitter.

And you realise that you waste half your life in dreamless sleep.

Being restless is fun once you have company.


Insomnia is contagious,
She spreads her sin from person to person,
Makes you feverish and dumb,
leaves you with bags under your eyes
and nothingness



And you realise from all this that love gives of itself without asking anything in return ,

Love is its own reward ,

even if loving an insomniac gives you nothing,


maybe there is beauty in nothingness


I used to dream , my dreams meant nothing.

Sonnet :(inspired by ‘you know your right’)
She hates the way I say her name,
Dancing around my affections,
Drowning me in her picture frame,
Chocking out deep inflections,
She just wants to love herself,
I just want to learn to dream,
She makes me forget myself,
Burying me again in cream,
She takes away all the pain,
I forget what it means to be
Making me want it back again,
I like the sea,
She likes the sky,
But it never rains .

For an Anna

Anna is that,
simple joy,
you get from eating ,
a ripe banana ,
sweet and yellow,
mellow ,
joyful,
anna

Burst of Creativity

Lines of prose running away from my pen,
I'm jealous , whats your name?
random burst of spontaneous creativity,
a poem it is not,
phone rings,
I'm disturbed,
this is the last line,
I forget ,
I forgot .

Flowers and Feelings

Flowers beauty and feelings,
are such things ,
transient :- not lasting long,
burning for a brief moment,
ultra violet flame ,
then falling into oblivion.

If you see a flower that you desire,
quickly pluck it ,
and steal its fire,
by tomorrow it could be gone ,
and , even if you take it today,
remember , fire burns out,
beauty doesn't' last,
ultra violet petals fade ,
to grey , pale purple,
yellows dull,
reds die,
ay! My flower Is falling .

Lines written during chemistry..
falling on love.

Love doesn't' fall,
it hangs
on that wall,
in the back of our minds,
its easy to find if your looking,
cobwebby and musty ,
but still lovely

love is to be fallen upon,
and fallen into,
such a heavy thing,
falling on anyone,
would hurt!

For a sixteenth Birthday

sixteen times i'v ran out of rhymes,
But the love keeps on giving,
So i'm giving you something true,
what you mean to me




Beautiful
My beautiful prose,
cannot give justice,
to a rose,
red,
in her blushing bloom.

I have not ,
the dewy perspiration,
to pen a single sonnet,
but her beauty be,
divine inspiration.
Enough ,
to wipe me blank.




Seperation
We'r separated by a gulf of self righteous lies,
Whenever you don't want to talk ,your battery dies,
Perish the trust in our eyes,

All that's left is conciet,
As far as the sky is over the earth,
the two that never will meet ,
So we together lie, in a bed of thorny deceit,
We wait for the rain, For the sky to shower,
his affections upon his bride ,
and her to be fruitful , to loose her thorns,
Blossom once again,
and stay at his side .



Poem
Bottles break upon my roof at night,
thrown by angry, piss eyed addicts ,
high on insecurities .
My yard is full of shattered glass,
nobody plays upon my grass .








Mellow
You'd think for once,
a life without problems,
would make me happy,
happy but not happy enough,
Just a mellow mess of mediocrity,
nothing nagging away at my mind,
nothing to keep me up at night,
Just a sickly mellow .

The truth is ,
life without problems,
is a four lettered word,
and your' better off cursed ,
in any other way.

Throw away your salt,
your sugar and your spices,
your life is bland ,
no flavour ,
Just that sickly mellow.

poem: for the girl I have yet to meet
Your eyes like the peace of night,
So dark , yet so bright,
Your hair a silk,
of which I would make my bed,
your hands so delicate,
I wish to hold them,
all night.

Smelter : written in 2 minutes for some girls CS ia.

Smelt this

Cut down my mango tree,
Take my land away from me,
Put me in a 'mixed community',
So your pocket will fill with money.

You can't eat foil,
But it can eat you,
Take a way your home,
Poison your children,
Forget about me,
Keep your foil.

Bring me a day,
When the sun rises,
And i can greet it ,
With hope,
Not regret.

Chocolate sprinkles

Did I eat?
I'm a donut ,
With chocolate,
In sprinkles ,
And icing ,
I'm a fever,
That passes from person ,
To person,
That everyone gets over,
I'm the feelings,
You don't have words for,
I'm the self expression,
You always wanted,
And always have,
I'm the question ,
With no answer,
Just an end,
After you forget,
After you,
Walk out.

Pollution rants
Father sky upon his seat,
in his orb of air,
Looks down on Mother Earth,
and her aged sphere,
cracked and beaten is she,
without mortal care.


Every year , I see the mountains more bare,
More naked,
Sun beats down upon its bare skin,
Making it browner than it has been,
Tanning out the richness of green.

We wait for the rains to come again,
To wash away our naked disdain,
But there will always be that,
Ever brown stain ,
That overflows into the roads ,
Browning out the streets .

Hope
Hope ,
That luminous beacon,
Ever shining on the horizon,
Ever distant,
But the would be pilgrim trudges on,
Towards the city of god, paradise ,
Redemption,
Or whatever sugary figment of mind's allusion ,
Beckons , like ripe fruit .
Riper yet the promise of hope,
With each passing moment,
Despair would rot sweetness ,
Till sweet make sickly,
But in the core ,
Seeds of hope remain,
Ready to spring anew

Bliss
Bliss is the child of ignorance ,
One cannot be blissful ,
And perceive the depth of reality,
Without choking ,
On the stench of the truth .
The flower of truth ,
Gives the bittersweet scent ,
That perfumes the death of the faithful ,
But its thorns prick the fingers,
And incarnadine the world ,
With the blood of its victims .









Her touch
The feeling of soft sheets upon my bare skin,
Reminds me of her touch,
Gentle and tender .
The whispering of the wind in the Trees ,
Echoes her voice ,
As soothing as silence .
Her Laughter,
Sweet and melodious ,
As a running stream .
Her flowing form ,
Daubs the cheek of beauty red .
Jealousy envies the supple brush ,
And deeper crimson ,
That did paint this lustrous image .
I too luster at perfection ,
Wishing that I , poor I ,
Would be blessed


Time
Man is a hunter,
Trying to catch,
The ever fleeing moment,
Time slips through his fingers ,
As if he tried to grasp,
A shaft of light

Friday seems an eternity away,
But it was only yesterday,
Saturday comes ,
To throw you,
Into Sunday's open arms ,
But when you awake ,
Monday's blinding sun offends the eye,
Leading the way to a new week ,
Of bondage .

Prose upon politics, in verse
The night steals in,
and sleep embezzles our time
by giving us foolish dreams ,
in exchange for half our lives.

Ere midnight comes ,
the robber strikes ,
timeliness would call him ,
''midnight-robber'' ,
but he also steals from us at midday.

His coat embelished ,
with the sharp, blood trimmed flower ,
and the crimson dying sun ,
like metaphors for our present and future ,
blood upon blood .


He carries a silver dagger ,
and a blind club ,
but needs only his tongue,
and our stupidity .

The promise he makes ,
is of a vision,
of a golden future,
of prosperity ,
but he takes our ebony,
and builds himself a palace ,
in our garden.

Timeliness
Nothing is free,

Especially not time,

Every second steals your life away,

Never to bring it back .

The only justice is ,

That sometimes,

Time comes cheaply,

Hours fly by,

And life is made ,

A little more valuable,

And the thief,

A little less sinister.

If you are awake,

I'm thinking of you,

If you aren't ,

I hope your dreaming of me,

Or at least at peace .

Pay me attention ( inspired by 'About a girl')
Pay me attention !

Just a look in my direction,

just so that I could see,

The color of your eyes,

And know if ,

It matches how I feel,

When you look,

Elsewhere .

You needn't pay me ,

If I could buy it ,

With clumsy words

And a crooked smile,

But I fear you've sold all

To someone else,

I fear having to wait ,

In that long , dreaded line,

Only to be turned away

Poem :- To a friend, a brother , a mother
In you I lost myself,

I had failed my eyes,

But you gave me reason to see.

You spoke,

And my tongue pronounced a litany in reply.

I sought death in sleep,

And you trod upon my waking

And helped me to dream again.

The August air
The gentle whisperings that float through the summer air,

Infect your senses with a new symptom ,

Of coming hope ,

The promise of freedom ,

The appeal of life ,

Flowing out just for you .

Warm , Dry sweetness wafts you away ,

To the land where cares are left behind ,

That transient place for four fortnight lives ,

Only to bring you happiness .

Fishes
Fishes in dishes ,

Make wishes ,

Do you wish ,

To be a fish

In a dish

With my wish?

Is a bowl a dish?

Ask the fish!





Pain
Pain cannot be touched ,

yet it touches us all,

it is bitter ,

yet lacks flavour...

it cannot be seen ,

but we see it everywhere ,

as intangible as it is ,

its more real than anything else .

Revolutionary rhyming cussin.

You Piss in the face of liberty,
Upon whose warm teat we suck,
Nobody cries rape
But who gives a fuck?

Dignity (written for a competition)

Dignity
Dignified
That Deified
most belied of words
my esteem for me is what matters .

Dignity :

its Intrinsic : Something you are born with
not a Deified lie to worship

like popularity , or money .
money buys friends and stuff to keep you high
but not respect for the singular I (yourself)

Dignity :
has no price ; its free,
as long as you learn to love yourself
you're valuable
dignified
Deified

(cause regular rhyme can get cheesy , and I'm lactose intolerant , i use free verse)

This is free verse
I use it to explain
Things so that
Anyone can understand
onto the topic at hand :
Dignity

Some say Dignity
is a God given
endowment
Since all men (and women)
are created equal
we all have it :
the ability to be
dignified

That's why I s
Deified : we're all

made with a touch
of Divinity
Dignity
is realising
that fact

This means that
a prostitute is as
dignified as
the President ( Pope , Prime Minister , or other P word)
while circumstance
dictates how everyone
treats you
it doesn't mean
a prostitute (or other pariah)
can't have
Dignity

So in Conclusion
Dignity is
Intrinsic ( you're born with it)
as long as
you can have
Self Respect
Self love
Self esteem
(and all that stuff)
you can realise
your Self worth
your dignity .

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