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Spirit Of Freemen, Wake

Spirit of Freemen, wake;
No truce with Slavery make,
Thy deadly foe;
In fair disguises dressed,
Too long hast thou caress’d
The serpent in thy breast,
Now lay him low.
Must e’en the press be dumb?
Must truth itself succumb?
And thoughts be mute?
Shall law be set aside,
The right of prayer denied,
Nature and God decried,
And man called brute?
What lover of her fame
Feels not his country’s shame,
In this dark hour?
Where are the patriots now,
Of honest heart and brow,
Who scorn the neck to bow

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poem by Anonymous Americas
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The Reprobate's Reply

Three droving men, some three weeks sync,
Sat drinking the Queensland rum;
'Twas four a.m. when twa o' them
Saw jock M'Phee succumb.

Hech! they were giddy songs he'd sung,
And the yarns which he'd spun were 'free'! -
For the liquor that nicht had loosed the tongue
O' gudeman Jock M'Phee.

They taul,t the meenister what befell,
So he tuk braw Jock to task:-
'Jock, gie me noo an answer true
To one question I wull ask.

'An' it happened the Laird had stricken ye,
A reprobate, graceless mon,

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poem by Harry 'Breaker' Harbord Morant
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Fears

They come,
like hooded serpents from dark holes
with venom in their fangs
ready to snap at.

Like,
Monsters from roaring seas
that rest on the sands
as boulders on a low - lying ledge

Or,
Vampires hurtling down
to suck the blood in the dark
with their outgrown canine teeth

They are,
Wasps swarming around
like embers from a furnace
with poisonous stings, hiding in their tails.

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poem by Valsa George
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Love Pitfalls!

Loving words romantic ones spray
And many succumb to the spell!
Deceived they realise it's false
And lament in poems endless here!

Love is not an easy joke to fool all;
But some have the gift of tongue
Like the heroes of movies often
And sway the preys very easily!

Then many stores in poetic forms
All read and say comments fast!
Popularity of love poets rise high
Making others to aspire so here...!

Sans experience nothing can be done
To say words of truth touching hearts!
But with new forms and techniques
Try their best in vain for a longtime!

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poem by Ramesh T A
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Alankar (Decor) -18

Oh Bare, How Dare She Stands....
(A Tribute To The Tree Golden Shower)

Oh bare, how dare she stands sole in her space
Shedding one by one all her green, lo, nude
Bearing pain over pain leaf by leaf crude
Oh there, why pares but fate this way her grace
But friends wait and watch just where goes her race
cited march pregnant her ilk to allude
Just trends trait straight golden showers so prude
Lighted torchlike blossoms to bloom her space

Sooner sunny racemes golden flower
Haloed circle enriched enshrine our hearts
Lordess shelters us herds in blest shower
Silent diction in praise of godly arts
Succumb we in 'Sarakondrai's'power
Tributes line up, what else then from our hearts

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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More About People

When people aren't asking questions
They're making suggestions
And when they're not doing one of those
They're either looking over your shoulder or stepping on your toes
And then as if that weren't enough to annoy you
They employ you.
Anybody at leisure
Incurs everybody's displeasure.
It seems to be very irking
To people at work to see other people not working,
So they tell you that work is wonderful medicine,
Just look at Firestone and Ford and Edison,
And they lecture you till they're out of breath or something
And then if you don't succumb they starve you to death or something.
All of which results in a nasty quirk:
That if you don't want to work you have to work to earn enough money so that you won't have to work.

poem by Ogden Nash
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My Strength

The day my strength desists,
Is the day my time is at an end.
From loving of my shadow
I speak of a darkness to behold.
It is the same darkness that is loved
And sculptured by the lunacy of innocence.
It is the day I stop praying
And a time for forgiveness,
Like a religion and a forfeit,
Like some crime and children to smack.

The day unwinds as if colour is black and
Black was white out of love.
White is the sun, not gold or bronze,
But silver is the moon, not like the white of the sun.
You will stop moving around,
And you will succumb to the pleasures that arrive.
Too many seconds are made by the Lord,
And so many are tied by his string
To uplift our hearts as solid drums of gold,

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Wheeled Feet

The feet have wheels of young endeavor,
Their signs are numerous and weighty,
For the weeks go by to succumb to pain
As the days roll by, as the days always sigh.

My Wednesdays are Thursdays,
And their feet ache for the rest of the saying.
These toes are bitten by the cold and frost
That starts to rot with age and reasons.

My ice pertains to processions,
The avalanche of the hungry abode;
A real rest achieves much in the worst
Of crimes.

Why do feet munch at the ridges?
Many solutions are pondered over
After the doors are opened to sin.
Why do my feet retain their time to expand?

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poem by Naveed Akram
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Ambiguity

I walk over thoughts, breathing my ambiguity
I sometimes have to walk away, singled out and solo
First thing in the morning; like the gentle breeze on my skin
I walk away the edges, to soothe my hot brow

My face against the cool grass, fresh and green in dew pools
My fingers over orphan flowers - lilacs with secret rights
I succumb me, my peace in sage dawns
Beyond wisdom, that dances me into the euphoria

I am cast; the monk from layered lives
Whirling in the intoxication of a thousand dreams
I wish them alive, I give them my magic form
As every breathe vapour, into the mystery

Some of us are Phantoms that freedom surged forth
On realities that shaped from forgotten portals
We drink from destiny that thrives on our lives
Slaking deep, from earth's ancient lore...

poem by Bindu Vijayan
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Foolish Pleasure

Pleasing the body is quite a feat.
It's life's biggest quest.
Pleasing the soul is a bigger feat
for the soul knows you best.

You cannot hide the crimson blush.
It's the body's tell-tale sign.
You cannot see the heartened rush
for the soul's pleasure is devine.

It's beyond the pleaure the body feels
for the body is a fickle fool.
But the pleasure of the soul is lasting.
It follows every rule.

But oh that foolish pleasure
that makes us who we are
seems so stong.It is hard to stop.
It's end is way too far,

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poem by Edwina Reizer
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