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Am I Less Patriotic

Am I less patriotic,
If I choose not to embrace...
Conservative values,
With a more broadened view...
That may be idealistic,
With equality issues I pursue.

Am I less patriotic,
If those who are hypocrites annoy?
The ones with their self righteous political opinions.
Those who influence lawmakers to consider and employ.

Am I less patriotic,
If I am bothered by illegitimate conflicts.
Those that depict one class of people,
As being worthy to indulge...
In the feeding done of their own interests.

Am I less patriotic,
If I wish hunger and homelessness...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Reluctantly Seeking

In a world in which many have spent,
Fortunes to keep themselves deluded...
And so many more kept drugged on fantasies,
With preferences to numb their heads...
To remain comatosed as if in sleep.
It is apparent and not overwhelming at all,
To witness people like this craving to be comforted...
By myths more valued than realities that exist.
While dismissing those with abilities to assist.
As they highlight with neon their ignorance.

Although the price paid to keep them deceived,
Has dug a hole so deep people slowly awakening...
Have reluctantly begun seeking to find anyone,
Willing to erase and re-write...
The most recent events in current history.
That will not place too much emphasis,
On those in positions...
'Assuming' they were born with superior intelligence.
But discovered to be incompetent!

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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This Comes to Those Who Loved to Pose Near Ghettos

An accustomed greed
Did not allow them to consolidate,
With those in need.
Those homeless without shelter.
And being depleted
As the greedy fed...
To feed and tease.

And they teased.
Requesting qualifications,
And deciding which among them
Would be pleased to be in their presence.
Instituting...
An awareness that divides,
By racist lines an intelligence may hide.
Groomed by standards that have been subpar...
Below that in some places.
And getting caught by the trappings,
Of low gutter bars.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Continuous Is The Flowing

So vast is a Universe.
Where flights of fancy are condoned.
And taken undisturbed...
Unlimited and free of boundaries.

Free of words spoken,
To utter descriptions of what is seen...
That may come to hinder one's voyage,
With a seeking of definitions...
One will never find on lips to depict the unknown.

Only sights are observed within this majesticness.
Manifesting a peaceful and pleasing birth of a journey.
Continuous is the flowing that grows.
Only sights are observed within this majesticness.
And manifesting without a need for validation,
Is this creativity which is never at rest.
Nor is there a time capable enough...
To give to it to satisfy its completion.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Whether Conscious or Not

As long as others,
Were subjects of their poked jokes...
These agitating folks were satisfied to live,
Unapologetically.
Free of guilt!
And accountability!

Nor did they think deeply,
About the affects of wearing sheets with peepholes.
And whose state of mind these acts would upset.
They were mobs much like a cancerous glob.
Yearning to hang or burn...
Human beings they deemed,
From them had lessons to learn!

And today this same mindset,
Has not through time been addressed.
That same ignorance defends insecurities.
With absurdities blatant.
And masked to distract...

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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With Words To Express, Define Or Explain

Smothered under thick layers of lies!
Suppressed by deceptions,
That keeps them self obsessed...
To excuse with alibis.
And no longer accepting the affects of self examination.
With cleared and open wider eyes.
They are first taught to assume positions,
Of being the center of the Universe.
Although from where they sit on Earth,
No one knows where up or down is.
Or if they are witnessing the left or right of it.

They learn to judge,
From lessons learned from birth first...
That whatever else exists,
From delusions quick to depict themselves...
Flawless.
There is a need to believe this ridiculousness,
Regardless of reality...
They wish with attempts to reverse.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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True Origin of the Ewes

Some say that we come from old Tado
others say ancestral home is Notsie
but our traits point us to old Egypt
while our practices do depict Jews
in dorflefle, trekosi and homtodzo

does what we shroud now tritely aloft
secret dialects we speak in sacred shrines
do explain or not why it sounds Hebrew
on the lips of our stark illiterate priests
or a minority feared, envied this much?

if our open secrets we hide in silence
to explicate the prejudice we feel now
is our incurable idolatory from ages past
stoked the wrath of the Ancient of Days
to estrange us in pillage from the old fold?

what excuse then do we have as curators
to our perplexed progeny in strange lands

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poem by Dela Bobobee
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Postman

My eyes are ticking towards door
I am restless and rolling on floor
I have spent sleepless night
So much to loose without any fight

In olden days, the postman was prime figure
We will run towards him for making it sure
The letter must be delivered in our hand
Else it would be love failure with tragic end

She had promised me to write in return
I had seen in her eyes clear positive turn
She was very much willing and eager
I too felt the same and became anxious either

I heard the footsteps of old man with post bag
He was inching forward by wearing the postman’s tag
He was addressed as postman uncle
Very honored figure and known in circle

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poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Kadamb tree and Krishna leela! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Lord, far from Vrindavan, I heard your Divine song
Enchanted and in a trance, I hummed as I walked along.
The air was cool, after the rain and mildly fragrant.
With soft, woody, sweet, delicate and light scent.

Dark clouds were floating gently in the sky awhile
Sun was having long needed rest, I thought with a smile.
Lo, to my delight and disbelief, what do I see?
I am standing under the canopy of Kadamb tree.

Spellbound, unmindful of the light showers and the wind,
I saw golden balls of yellow flowers bobbing and swing
Saw you step out of the miniature painting in my mind’s eye.
Playfully watching the milk maids bathing, feeling shy.

In broad day light, stole clothes from the Yamuna’s banks.
Nonchalantly, climbed the Kadamba tree and played pranks
Teasing and laughing as they shivered and watched mute,
Pleading with their eyes, while you played, on your flute.

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poem by Mamta Agarwal
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A Spring-Afternoon

I am thinking for a walk, and

I just decided to have a walk outside my home.

I am passing by my street.

I am looking at the afternoon's view.

Spring just has arrived …….

I can smell its essence.

So, I am glad to sensualize it.

But, what does it cost for a senseless?

Now, I can realize the sayings of great men

as too many beautiful songs have been sung in an orderly manner (to expose the pleasures of spring) .

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poem by Bibhakar Dutta
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