A Must Read Poem For All From A Poet To The World: Message To The World

  MESSAGE FOR THE MESSED AGE.

The ancient rocks have cracked open;
Large creeks are formed into the rocks
On which our fore and fathers stood upon
To sail their days and anchor their ways,

The ancient rocks of wisdom are gone;
Fast and furious like arrows sent in air,
And the gaps formed are yet be bridged
For the heirs are fragile and futile as death,

The lights that lit their dark days are dead,
Not rekindled and its smoke is choking as death;
The lights of ethics of things are no more;
Sanity has been broken and left for the dogs.

Tell these crawlers of web to surf even more
Maybe someday they'll find a site for some E-senses,
Tell these dwellers of internet to put up some inter nets,
Maybe their snares would catch them the senses they've lost,

O you heirs of Solomon and of David the sons of Adam
O you dwellers of clubs, inns and all of cyber cafés,
Forget not your fore barers who ruled the world with words;
The wit of David, faith of Abraham and wealth of Solomon,

Learn to read maps and the art of listening,
Borrow the wealth of Solomon not the fully of Judas,
Learn from the fall of Jericho and the rise of Babylon.
Learn to see that the moon borrows its light.

Appreciate the essence of knowledge not written;
Those that aren't taught within four corners walls,
And look back into the archetype of things that exist;
Trail back the history of how we all begun,

And know that there were some first and twenty centuries
Before this twenty-first century of menace pedagogy
So whatever messages you want to leave behind for the heirs to come
Let it be something worth your stress and your big times cum.

                 ©HYBRID

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Poet Hybrid at it again. Read and enjoy this Poem.

         
                DEATH'S BROTHER

Death has a brother who's uglier;
He's swift and deadly like a serpent
He moves like a spirit in wilderness
He's heavy like a bad news from an enemy,

Death has this brother who's more wicked;
He's dangerous than the Ebola Virus in multiple nuts,
Though he takes life not but takes life to naught,
He's like a siege laid along one's way to paradise,

Death's brother is more than death's kind,
He is bitter than the things in the abyss of hell,
He is sweet at being bitter as lasses at being lasses,
He seizes joy and ceases laughter in happy homes,

He breaks remuse and begins the end to love,
He is the teacher that teaches all devil's courses,
He pave the way to all anti-humane attitudes,
He is the genesis to humans greed and multi need,

He starts the begin to every war and discrimination to every law,
He's the founder of Poor-Versity and a city called Poor-Per City
He's the sailor that sails saints' sainthood to condemnation
He's strong for he controls human mind and attitudes' altitude,

He kills not but takes away life from the living
For when he attacks he sucks out all the good,
He sabotages human respect and self esteem
He breaks the gold of rules for golden rules,

Like a viper he stings but deeper than an abyss
Like a virus he attacks; invading all man's defense,
Like volcano he erupts to burning down all hopes
Like tornado he's swift, heavy, and very destructive,

As bullets from gun he's strong so worth to be feared of
He's dangerous so must be kept zillions miles away,
He must be shown to one's children so they'll beware him
For he doesn't kill but makes you live but like a dead,

Death's brother is his next of kin
So, as much as you'll fear him fear his brother,
For if death would have been given another name
It'll be Poverty his brother's name.

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Poem for all. Read and Enjoy.

   The Lost in the Lost land.

The farther you go the wrong path,
The harder to find your way back,
Like mixed pelting shadows and ghosts,
You don't know what to do with them,
For none can be killed neither be caught,

Looking down the trails of past;
Full of snaring moments' uncannies,
I feel the deja-vu of the Tsunami,
I feel that of the whirlwind and thunder,
I feel the horrors of my past so fast,

In my course of becoming happy,
I couldn't notice I was turning harpy,
Along this aisle of my journey to Lost,
I was warned of the upcoming blackouts,
But I didn't heed that I may find no way out,

And now like a stubborn strange man,
Travelling the lanes of strange land,
With no map nor compass for bearing,
I'm toiling the same roundabout; on and on with pain,
Hoping someday I find my way back home.

                  (C)HYBRID 

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Poem: Power Of Life

POWER OF LIFE

The drops of tears when weak,

Wash away the dirty pads on our cheeks,

And form tributary to our powers beneath,

Let us sing the Mosaic song of power,

The one which gave him hope and power to conquer,

Let’s dance to the toning voice of power from tower,

Let’s dance in calibrated steps,

Designed to pull out weakness

Off the vain and arteries,

What power are we seeking in this jungle of weak?

Let us fly to the field where power of life is grown,

The field inside us; deep beneath,

Where hope and power that against defeat are grown,

For we need it when we are weak.

(C) HYBRID

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Must Read: Poetic story of slavery in modern suit.

SLAVERY IN MODERN SUIT

Beautiful becomes ugly,

Orchid placed on detest orchard,

Perfect ennui manifest,

Within the good orchestra,

There is nowhere for them to play,

There is nowhere for them stay,

They pay for not what they say,

Difficulties become order of day,

As they are bullied every day,

Freedom! Freedom!! That is all they pray.

This acrylic fate

Of past date,

Heirloom of hate

From past race,

Exist on face

Till this date,

Could this be legal libel?

The sons of land,

Are deprived to plant,

As if on exile,

Treated like the exiles,

Deprived of their rights,

Seized from their sites,

Seconds are broken with sighs,

For they are tagged: riles.

As if beneath the skull

There is fracture,

Could this be human nature?

Ahem, human nature it is,

What kind of notion is this?

Woe betide on rights.

They danced in jolly woe,

To fabricated fate of woe,

Designed by these people of doom,

That faked their faith;

They shall rue.

Their tainted future

The hawkers nurture,

This infertile pasture

They intentionally nurture,

Blinded by the rapture

Of phantom future,

They couldn’t see fracture

On their rootless future,

They were promised tuxedos,

Diner with famous Confucius,

  Lots of nights in igloo

Below the moon glow,

And a thousand silk robes

Embroidered with glitter and gold,

Alas! They were fed,

Fed with true deceit,

They believed this deceit,

With contempt for their conscience,

 Few even knew it was deceit,

 But they wanted to test their braveness,

A few knew not of it

But from the cake; they ate.

They are not to be blamed,

For their future they claimed,

They never thought nor knew,

Of the kind of plane,

They boarded to crane,

Until it is plain to their brain;

They have landed a place

Where slavery is seen in modern suit.

(C) HYBRID

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Are you a mother? if YES, read this, if NO, then you need this most.

BEAUTIFUL CRONES

They are the fireflies

Whose fires can’t die!

Far differ from these types;

The glow-worms of this time.

They are not these kinds

Who façade beautiful countenance,

To cover up the ugly ugliness,

Of their mind’s black burning furnace.

Beautifully ugly, yes they are!

But far better than these kinds

Who have changed their original kinds

To something worse from what they are.

Nothing can taint their dignity,

Perfectly laid is their pride and sagacity’s veracity,

They believe the pride in their children prams,

Nothing would change that; not even zillion pounds.

On their children

They would spend the whole year time,

They’ve got no time to prance,

No iota time to flaunt

Their golden rouge from France,

For they would leave all stands

But not their husbands’ ranch.

Never wistful of their wispy hair,

They like it: their natural kinky hair,

No fake face implanted,

Nor fake breast fixing fixated.

They preserve their ritzy girdles:

A thing done under their husbands’ aegis,

They are better than these kinds

Whose nipples burst through their draperies

Like flower’s petals of hyacinth.

They are bankers and sellers in market square,

They are farmers and cleaners in all works square,

They are teachers, they are fishers,

They are hawkers and women in all works square,

Who work with all their hearts,

Not to be chatelaines, nor to own golden hats,

Who immerse their selves in work

For the future of their lovely wards.

They are not of these days,

Where immorality has raped even the saints,

They wouldn’t doubt their husbands as sages,

For they have no concubine hidden in cages.

They may have no banks’ cards

Nor new or latest of cars,

No gadgets, nor android phones

Coated with glitters or golden pads,

No breast nor behind so large to flaunt,

But one thing: they are beautiful crones

Who are sound and beautiful in mind.

The kinds of them are rare to find,

In their quest you’ll grim and growl,

This day, they are rarely scarce,

The ones you can find are their fragments.

(C) HYBRID

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I don't know how horrendous is death moment but I think this poem does a great painting.

THROES OF DEATH

Smooth–coarse hazardous movement of clotted blood,

With sharp pains from vigorous

Cracking of pummeling bones,

Blasting through flesh’s throne,

The dilated eyes filled with dry tears,

And clutching legs of frustrated agonizing body,

The gnashing teeth like thunderclap,

And heavy breathing of pain filled body.

The crashing chest’s beats

Like irregular drum beats,

And swift neck’s throb

Like a car suddenly halt.

The regular opening of mouth:

Producing a sinking thud,

Like a thirsty duck getting drown.

The body wishes to say:

It is time, this is the date,

But the vocal strength is gone,

Surely, it’s too late to talk.

Again, the heart would begin thumping throbs,

Fast as a flashing strobe,

Then it would stop

With sharp sudden sinking thud;

Then, the shivering cold hands would drop

Like a bird out of luck:

Sure evidence that the soul is gone.

(C) HYBRID

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Do you know truth is alive? Here is its lamentation: Read and enjoy.

TRUTH’S LAMENTATIONS

I was once a warrior

I safe lives with sword,

In the times of horror

People believed in my sword,

For they know it is for salvage,

And not at all for carnage,

Alas! Alas!! My sword! My worth!

Oh ye now! Oh ye now!!

Why hath thou crushet my sword?

Why have thou bring my worth down?

Thou hath substitute my worth,

For money; that man that has no forth.

I was this fruit of past

People eat to protect their lives,

I was planted on fertile land,

Catered and nurtured on this land,

Even when I threatened toxic in my gland,

I was not forsaken, I was guarded,

For they knew verily,

I am the best for their lives.

Lo! Now! I’ve been seared,

Alas! I taste so bad,

Like sour milk; so bad!

The conflagration that burns me to char,

Comes from the sybaritic way of life,

That now has decided to live life,

Not that I’ve really lose my taste,

But I have lost the traits;

The ones who know my taste

As a perfect pill of safe,

For their swaying fates.

I was a fountain,

From which all saints,

Drink to straight

Their broken faiths,

I was as crystal clear,

Shining like a diamond glare,

Sweet like a ripened pear,

Whosoever that drinks from me,

Would bear not a pinch of fear,

But courage as a warrior with spear,

But now, badly I glare,

Ah! Bluntly, I glare,

People now drink me with fear,

Alas! I, the killer of fear,

Has become orchestra for fear

To now; the one I care,

Not really that I portray threat,

But these people who I care,

Has fallen into abyss of fear,

For inability to lose their pearls,

For this; they make me not their pear,

Even the saints fear,

To make me pear,

But for them I cry and fear,

For bad is the end of their fare.

(C) HYBRID

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Today is not mother's day but let show moms love by reading this poem.

SECOND GOD OF EARTH

Even if I exhaust the largest golden fountain pen,

I have used something but less for you,

Even if I write this ode till I reach the end of words,

I shall write something but less about you,

Even if I praise you with the highest pitch,

 I shall say something but few about you,

Even I cook parsley with parson’s nose,

In a heavenly pot made of purest gold,

I have cooked but something less worthy for you,

Even if I climb the mountain Everest to its crest;

To tell the world about you, to tell them you’re the best,

I have done something but have a lot left,

Even I buy for you; the world best rouges

And thousands of mighty golden silk robes,

I have done nothing for you are naturally a beauty,

Even if I call you the second god of earth,

Oh yes! You worth than that,

Oh yes! You worth than earth,

O ye sweet lover,

O ye the fortune bringer,

O ye who deserve the best prayers,

Aye! You are the one,

Aye! You worth than anyone,

O ye who brought Man to earth;

 The only water in all’s desert,

 The golden light in all’s darkness,

The first earth lived by Man,

The moon that brightens the world,

The mighty star for earth’s décor,

The mighty tree that all behold,

The mighty pearl which worth than gold,

The one whose name is Mother!

(C) HYBRID

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Don't be heartless: Read this Poem and feel what these children feel.

MARRIAGES’ BROKEN MIRROR

They are the unkempt children

Wandering around the town,

They are those underage

You see around your town,

They are those flocks of children

Hawking in the market square,

They are beautiful,

But no one dear,

They are the able beggars

You see here and there,

They are sweet fruits

Denied to be ripened,

They are diamond

But not polished.

They are these children

Beneath the sky

Whose tender skins

Are patted by flies,

Whose lovely eyes

Cannot cease to cry,

Whose sweet lips

Eat nothing but germs,

Whose bodies lay not

On bed nor on mat

But on an elongated leaf

From a banana tree.

They are those children

Who sleep in twos or threes;

Not in a cottage nor in a hut,

But under the shade

Made by a government bridge.

They are not from sky,

Not aliens on earth,

They have their freedom,

It has been enslaved,

They have their homes,

They are been denied.

They have their two eyes

They have both departed.

They have their family

It has been broken;

Spermatozoa in north

And ovum in south.

They turn gentle men

On the high way

And those sick girls

Whose doctors live in brothels.

They are the images

From broken marriages’ mirror.

(C) HYBRID

 

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Read and enjoy: poem for all.

SET FORTH FOR FORTH

Under the glow of the mighty moon;

Nothing left to think,

Breaking every seconds of time with sigh,

Peaceful anger becomes shadow,

When seated patiently on a seat called thought,

For every thought is a seat for mind,

Why not just pieces the seat?

And allow the mind to fly

Into a world called peace,

Though we are meant to be beaten

Severally within our chest,

But if the beats of heart

Beat the beats that beat the heart,

We all have to ignore the past

And set forth for forth.

(C) HYBRID

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